


Stone In Mouth

by Glossolalia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 90s AU, Age Difference, Alcohol, Also this means 90s goth vampires because I need someone to wear velvet, Awkward Flirting, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Bloodplay, Dark Comedy, Drug Addiction, Fae & Fairies, Horror, M/M, REAL AGE DISCOURSE, Recreational Drug Use, Shiro is 300 and Keith is like 60, Stalking, Vampires, Werewolves, literal power imbalance, vampire drugs???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: In 1997, Keith is a feral baby vampire who was sired some fifty years before. After one of his hunts goes horribly wrong, Keith saddles Shiro with the responsibility that's babysitting him until he's fit to exist as an independent vampire. That is, of course, until Keith's sire unexpectedly returns.This would be a mild inconvenience if Keith's sire wasn't seeking to dominate humankind. This would be a mild inconvenience if Keith's sire also didn't hate Shiro for abandoning his coven two hundred years before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love vampires. When are we going to accept they're cool again? Has it been long enough? Too soon?
> 
> And yeah, you read that tag. I not only put this in the 90s because cell phones make shit hard if you wanna create suspense, but also, someone is gonna wear red velvet and that someone might be Keith at the 90s goth vampire club (is this True Blood? lol), but like, who knows?

_There is something baffling about how people end up places._

It's a fleeting thought, but a thought nonetheless. Keith's red Nike high tops scuff across a faded sidewalk as if inserting a sort of punctuation mark to his cognition. He's unaccompanied, which is its own kind of problem, and aside from the splicing orange light from sparse streetlamps, the neighborhood he's cruising is alive with the song of crickets. It's perplexingly full of dark crooks, and Keith is attempting to figure out how a child-dense area could have lanterns with such minimal radiuses.

Dark, dark, dark; a black sheet draped over what many would believe to be a grid of American Apple Pie during the day. When the sun sets, it's like closing a live production, and only after hours does the cast shed its costumes and rehearsed characterizations. Vaguely, Keith recalls this state of being. It's been years, though. He hasn't seen the sun since 1958, and the last time he checked, it's 1997.

He's not _that_ focused on his environment, though.

Ahead of him, some fifty-feet away is his primary source of intrigue. This interest is an impossibly tall man with wide shoulders and a brown shopping bag cradled in his arms. Keith first noticed him in the local 24-hour Quick Mart. They'd been two out of five people wandering the fluorescent aisles at one in the morning, and when Keith caught a flash of his white forelock, he'd halted his turn into the hall of canned soups.

Kneeled down and weighing the pros and cons of cream of mushroom versus cream of celery, he hadn't noticed the way Keith's nostrils flared or how he lifted his palm to cover his mouth with a gasp. The way his fangs descended was merciless, the ripping of gums cutting through the electric hum of the freezer section. Keith had whimpered at the ache, but the pain was replaced by a different kind. His heart violently thumped against his ribs, leaving him momentarily breathless. Afraid of being seen, he'd stepped back to cough the ache away, but it'd insisted on climbing his throat.

Keith was starved. This wasn't up for discussion. It had been weeks since his last meal, and his body was slipping into a stage of decay that set his nerves on fire. Throughout the day, he couldn't sleep. Into the night, he trembled like a junkie mourning smack, but hunting was arduous work when alone. Most baby vampires were trailed after for centuries, protected, fed and enthusiastically pleasured by an elder, but he had never met his thus leaving Keith in a perpetual state of suspension with no sense of rules.

He'd had one train of thought as he'd drifted into the neighboring aisle, feet pointedly avoiding the cracked tile's grainy fissures. The more he tried to stifle it, the louder the urge became, blackening his brain.

_I'm going to eat this man alive, even if I have to sleep beside his corpse before I can hide it._

It's hard not to acknowledge killing the man could be considered a waste. For human standards, he's beautiful. Unfairly so with lifted cheekbones that taper toward a strong chin. Keith had inspected him at the checkout, noting both that his generic Cheerios were boring and how his eyes were two hunks of coal. Logically, he knew they were brown, but they were insidiously dark, even beneath the sterile lighting.

Unfortunately for one of them, standard beauty conventions don't take precedence to a meal, and Keith continues to stalk without an ounce of the moral conundrum.

The man stops outside of a dilapidated two-bedroom farmhouse on the final corner of the neighborhood. Between his house and the Cheerios, Keith can't help but wonder if he's doing the man a favor by killing him. The tiny town is a 'one grocery story and single diner with mediocre cherry pie' kind of place where nothing happens. At least getting one's throat torn out could be classified as exciting.

The prey nearly drops his bag fumbling to unlock his front door. Evidently unaware of his lurker, he slowly lets himself inside his house. One by one, lights are flipped on, and Keith watches him through his untreated windows. He chucks the keys into a dish in the living room and ambles from there on into a kitchen that sits dark for several seconds. When the light comes to life, Keith licks at one of his fangs and begins to concoct a story. He's looked nineteen-years-old for the past thirty-nine years. If there's one trick he will always have up his sleeve, then it's looking like an innocent waif on the cusp of manhood.

Keith rights himself and applies a soft expression. He muscles through his instincts and retracts his fangs, and when the burn of them wrenching back inside his mouth dissipates, Keith shoves his hands into the back pockets of his black denim. He strides down the sidewalk at a determined pace. Keith's aware his current state is volatile, but he figures he'll atone for that if it gets the best of him.

He climbs the rickety wooden steps that lead to his meal's porch. Keith straightens his beanie and clears his throat. He lifts his fist and knocks, using his keen senses to track the proximity of the man's footsteps. The sound stops him in the midst of putting away groceries, and there's an uncertain pause, but he eventually walks from one end of the house to the door, and trustingly, unlocks and opens.

Their eyes meet. Keith's mouth salivates.

Not just because his fangs are begging to descend, but because the human is an Olympian in the flesh. He's too perfect even for vampire standards, and Keith's eyes immediately lower to the man's sculpted chest followed by his thin waist. Realizing he's still playing cards, Keith rapidly blinks and parts his lips to appear nervous. He wishes he'd had gum because chewing gum makes everything that much more casual.

"I know it's late, but can I use your phone? My car bit the dust a few streets back, and your house is the only one with a light on. I didn't want to be rude or whatever so…"

This technically isn't a lie. The neighborhood is a ghost town, entirely devoid of life until 6 AM. That's how most of the neighborhoods in town are.

The man blinks in surprise, also taking in Keith's appearance. Keith knows how he looks. He's perpetually in college, leaned out but small, and oh-so-harmless. Terrifically pretty, too. More men than women have shown interest in him over the past decade, and this stranger seems to be another one of those men. Clearing his throat, the man pushes back his pale bangs and lets his door creak open with an ominous drift.

"Sure," he says, voice like dark, cool water. "My phone's in the kitchen. Are you sure you're okay? You didn't crash or anything, right?"

Keith hesitates, but this is because he has to be explicitly invited into the house. He glances toward the road as if second guessing and slowly crosses his arms over his chest.

"It's okay," the man reiterates. "Come inside. What's your name?"

Keith slowly steps over the threshold, and his heart kicks again when he isn't met with resistance. He enters the dimly lit living room and drags his eyes across the green and white paisley couch that sits catty-corner to a boxy television set. The floors are freshly polished hardwood, and the ceiling fan is whipping the south's damp summer air around, hardly cooling anything. On his battered glass coffee table, there's an ashtray that says 'For Mom' across the rim. It's what's holding his keys.

"Keith," he says vacantly and slowly drags his eyes back to the man.

"I'm Shiro," he replies and points his thumb to the kitchen. "The phone is in there. I have a phone book for some local tow places, but you might be better off catching a ride from someone since it's so late. They'll take their time."

The kitchen hasn't seen an upgrade since the mid-sixties. It's evident in the pea soup gas stove and matching fridge. Something about the house makes Keith nostalgic, and that nostalgia deepens when Keith spots a tea kettle with orange and brown flowers ringing its body. It's a time warp, Keith realizes. Even the wood paneling along the breakfast nook is a product of a bygone era, and it's all dull.

Dull, dull, dull.

Everything is dull except Shiro's scent, which is currently overpowering him and making his navel burn in a way he thought was dead to his cold, lifeless body. Star anise, dissected vanilla pods, split apples; the man smells like a dying summer. It drags its claws down his throat and burns like a perfume aisle, but Keith can't stop inhaling.

Shiro knocks him from his vapors. "The phone is on the wall over there, and the phone book is in the drawer. I'd offer you something else if I had it, but all I have is water."

"Thanks," Keith says and reaches for the drawer. He half-smiles at Shiro, pretending he's self-conscious about imposing. "Water is fine, man. You're letting me into your house at one in the morning. It's okay."

This is the perfect opportunity for Shiro to turn his back. As Keith flips through the book, hunting down a number he doesn't need, his eyes flick toward Shiro. It isn't until he has the glass in hand does Shiro finally show him his spine, and Keith's pupils flare open like a cat preparing to pounce.

Keith is lithe with a capacity to be dangerously quiet. This is a part of his nature and what he knows to be the two things that put him far above humans in the food chain. With this in mind, he silently walks across the kitchen toward Shiro, the scent climbing in wafts that crash over him again and again like waves. His fangs descend, but the lust numbs what's usually a painful experience. If he weren't already dead, then the amount of sheer want would've killed him by then.

His regulator snaps like a dead twig. An uncontrollable hiss rips from the tip of his tongue, and Keith lunges with an outstretched hand, reaching for the back of the man's neck. He wants to tear his head back and gouge his throat with fangs over and over until his neck is string. Keith's age makes messy kills as appealing as dense orgasms, and he can already see himself shirtless and nursing the dead body dry.

But his hand never clutches flesh. His fingers never brush the downy hair growing along the tender drop of Shiro's neck. Instead, Keith's wrist is snatched up in a grip so firm Keith is in a panic before he realizes what's happened. His eyes widen, and his weakening heart wildly pounds in his ears as the instinct to defend himself begs him to move. Shiro has spun, but before Keith can react, he's effortlessly thrown to the ground

With a sick thud, Keith's skull smacks against the hardwood floor. A knee lands on his chest, daring him to try and move, and a hand pins him down by the throat. Above him is Shiro, but Shiro is wearing a sinisterly stable expression, inspecting Keith's features and discerning his existence. This eventually prompts him to slowly arch an eyebrow. Shiro parts his lips as if contemplating words, and Keith's eyes blaze at the sight of a pair of fangs that's mature in length and width. The dropped weaponry makes him realize his massive mistake, and rightfully terrified, Keith begins to pant and flail.

"You're one of Zarkon's."

Shiro doesn't sound pleased, but Keith doesn't care about his opinion. He continues to squirm, reaching for Shiro's wrist but quickly disarmed. Both wrists are pinned above his head and Keith whimpers in protest. Encroaching on an ancient vampire's territory without civil invitation is grounds for being left to the sun, but Keith isn't suffering due to that possibility. He doesn't know that possibility. Not only does he feel ignorant, but he's humiliated, pride gutted. He wants to lick his emotional wounds in private.

"Let me go," he orders when he should be begging. A refined baby vampire would've submitted by then, hushed himself with lowered eyes and wrenched back fangs.

"Not when you're starved," Shiro says, the refusal blunt. "If I let you go like this, then at some point, you'll make an embarrassing mess in my territory that I'll have to clean up because I found you first."

"Then _what,_ " Keith starts, still too young not to lisp over his fangs, "are you going to do? Kill me?"

Shiro exhales. He's already exasperated by Keith's drama.

"I'm going to feed you. I'm going to feed you just like the baby you're proving to me you are." Shiro faintly smiles at that, then finding his own joke funny. He eases his grip. "If you try to run, I'll kill you. I just ate so you can drink from me without it making me worse for wear."

Keith is suddenly too stunned to fight back. He lies limp beneath Shiro and continues to gaze at his fangs in wonderment. While he'd instinctively wanted to, drinking from Shiro strikes him as too intimate, too close to bonding. It's something younger vampires do with their sires, and Keith has never had one before. He slowly shakes his head, scared of something very different this time.

Shiro clenches harder than ever before. "Death it is—"

"No! Fine!" Keith wheezes. "I'll drink from you!"

Drinking from a human is nothing because not only is it rarely planned too far in advance, but it's also far less intimate in every sense of the word. Climbing onto a vampire's lap with a set of pheromones like ambrosia is enough to give Keith an aneurysm. It's asking him to let down his guard and share a part of himself that's supposed to be invisible to everything but gagged shadows. He's literally inserting himself into someone he has to face again, and from what he's heard, it tends to feel good on the receiving end.

Shiro is clinical about it, though.

Keith lifts both of his palms in surrender, and though Shiro inspects him for several more seconds, he finally frees his throat and helps him to his feet. His touch is much softer this round. It's even gentle.

"When was the last time you drank from your sire?" Shiro asks, leaning over to pick up the fallen glass of water. He unrolls a wad of paper towels and drops them onto the small puddle before mopping with his foot.

Keith shifts his mouth to the side. "Never. At least, I don't remember if I did."

Shiro stops without looking at Keith. He closes his eyes and wearily exhales, continuing to clean. "Of course not."

Embarrassed for reasons he's not sure he has; Keith wrings his hands. It's not an act this time. He's nervous about what that means for him, but Shiro doesn't bother to explain.

Shiro motions with a curt wave and walks into the living room. In the corner sits a chair that matches the dated paisley couch, and after closing the blinds and checking the time, Shiro takes a seat and sighs. The chair's high back and arms give it a glove-like fit that leads Keith to believe there's no room for him.

"Come here," Shiro orders.

The order makes his ears perk and eyebrows lift. He feels inclined to listen to someone for the first time in his second life, and he quickly crosses the room. Shiro reaches for his hip, and the touch causes Keith's mouth to open in surprise, but he doesn't retract. He's guided onto the man's lap in a way Keith remembers from his humanhood. Shiro doesn't look at him and tilts his head, then exposing his neck. He continues to pull Keith closer until Keith's knees are wedged between the outsides of his thighs and interior of the chair's arms.

For someone so long dead, Keith can't help but find Shiro's presence warming.

Keith unsteadily grabs Shiro's biceps, and suddenly, he feels thrown to sea. He's rapidly panting, and when his teeth start to chatter, one of his hands slides down Shiro's chest. It only stops above his jeans. Keith wants to bury his face into Shiro's neck and nuzzle until both his thirst and sudden crushing sense of loneliness are gone. He's been so lonely, he realizes. He's had no one since birth.

He admires the soft blue of Shiro's throat, the way he takes in air and dispels it even though vampires don't necessarily need to breathe. The habits of humanity are sewn into all cartilages, but Keith's hunger gnaws his pretty thoughts into a sloppy hamburger-like mess that sit in the back of his cheek for safe keeping. Shakily, unsteady like the newborn foul he is, Keith claws at Shiro's chest again and inspects the offering with pulsing pupils.

 _Places_ , he thinks again. Shiro's fingers dance along his lower back, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. It's subtle, but he's anchoring him into their current reality. _How do people end up places?_

"Bite," Shiro urges, voice strained. "I can stop you."

Keith inhales, the lavender of his eyes shifting to red in a blink. With a traitorous whimper, a sound that lets Shiro know just how hungry Keith is, the younger shifts forward and brings his mouth to Shiro's throat. It's the anticipatory moment. It's the pause before crushing a bite free from a strawberry's body. Keith's stare softens, and slowly, his fangs begin to sink. The penetration is fleetingly resistant, but then all at once, he's driven into Shiro's cool flesh with only the mildest trace of a pop.

There's bliss, and then there's the euphoria that's his teeth nestled deep into Shiro's tight skin. Keith's eyes grow heavy in a haze, and Shiro reaches for the back of his head, then cradling it with fingers tangling into his hair. Keith doesn't notice the intimacy of the hold, but his body croons in approval as he relaxes. Blood bursts into his mouth like ripe citrus, soaking his tongue and running down his throat in an uninterrupted, hot stream. Shiro's kill is somewhere fresh and forgotten, and the thought alone makes Keith indecently moan as if he's the one being pried open. The noise causes him to messily spill onto them both.

Shiro whistles, brow furrowed when Keith closes all space between them. Keith violently jerks with a sob-like hiccup that invites Shiro to the possibility that he might've taken on more than he initially thought. He's about to chuckle to disperse the tension, but Keith unexpectedly rips his fangs free. Keith chews his cheek as he processes.

_Something's wrong._

Shiro knows for certain Keith shouldn't be full. He turns his head with a grunt, neck loudly aching in protest. It's not in a nerves-only sensational sort of pain but the desire to be punctured again and satiate another. Immediately, Shiro's blessed with the view of Keith's blood-smeared mouth, the violent display endearing in all its scrappiness.

 _Keith needs this_ , he notes.  _He was rotting._

"Keep eating," Shiro insists, wiping a smear of blood off the tip of Keith's nose.

Keith blinks through his red gaze, letting Shiro touch him as his feral headspace attempts to logic through what's wrong.

"It's not enough," Keith rasps, holding tight to Shiro's shirt with both hands.

"What's not enough?" Shiro asks, suddenly sounding tired.

"The blood."

There's something else, but Keith can't drink it down. It's the bright pith of Shiro's non-soul. It's how the stranger's shell reverberates beneath his body. It's full of a person he's keeping corked tight, and Keith needs to un-bottle whatever's sealed inside the man, but they don't know one another. Keith has no right to some vampire centuries his senior, but that doesn't stop him from tapping into this different kind of anemia. It's instantaneous. It's dramatic, and while Keith doesn't consciously like drama, he can't deny the power behind such spontaneous feeling. This longing feels like his expiring memories of sunlight.

Keith's breathing deepens into something haggard, and he rips his gaze from Shiro in frustration. Shiro's hand darts for his chin, and he redirects Keith's stare. Like a judge at a dog show, he pushes back Keith's upper lip to inspect his fangs. It's only then Keith realizes Shiro's eyes are no longer black, but two concentrated rubies.

"You've never been with a sire. This is probably overwhelming, and other urges are happening. What you're feeling can be addressed later on after you consistently eat for a while."

This is an order, and Keith knows it.

Much like when Shiro asked him to take a seat, Keith's body doesn't deny Shiro's words. He reaches for the temple above Shiro's farthest cheekbone and bends back in, returning his teeth to the previous bite's approximate lesions. A glut of blood pours between his lips as they cut in, and when Keith sucks, Shiro's head reclines back. The older vampire grits his teeth and kneads Keith's hips. He begins to groan, but he evaporates the throaty noise into an embarrassed hum that encourages Keith to roll his hips.

"We're not doing that," Shiro murmurs, but he rocks his hips back, meeting Keith's next one halfway. The refusal only makes Keith drink harder, and Shiro laughs. "Don't be a brat."

Shiro encircles his arms around Keith's waist, and without warning, leans forward to tilt Keith backward and utilize gravity. Something urges Keith to trust Shiro's grip, and he doesn't bother clinging to the man as he's suspended back. Keith unhooks his teeth from Shiro's skin and opens his lips with a smug smile. He sticks out his tongue, and a bloody river oozes across the muscle. It drips toward the back of his throat in thick shots, and when Keith swallows, red splashes onto his lips. Shamelessly, he licks the mess from his upper lip and lets the excess cover his face.

Entering his own state, Shiro leans down and licks the mess from Keith's chin, moaning at the taste of both red and Keith. Keith himself is surprised when he lets it happen. He catches the draining blood in his hands like finding a spring after the desert and sloppily pours it into his mouth. Shiro is still licking, and for the first time since being changed, Keith feels coddled.

Suddenly full, Keith tries to catch his breath even though he doesn't need to. He's no longer eying Shiro's throat who has pulled back just enough to give Keith eye contact. He's admiring the form of Shiro's bloodied mouth instead. Something tells him it would taste good, but it's only a hunch.

"Is the sun about to come up?" Keith shakily asks, his body alive for the first time in weeks and trembling from over stimulation.

Shiro doesn't hear the question.

His nostrils flare as he attempts to retain control, but much to Keith's desires, Shiro is snapping. Keith is about to repeat the question when Shiro shifts forward and roughly presses his mouth against Keith's. Teeth clank, but rather than fight it, Keith reaches for the back of Shiro's head and hurriedly wraps his thighs around his waist. He squeezes his legs like commanding a horse, and Shiro lurches to his feet.

Keith sucks back Shiro's bottom lip with a sticky pop and licks his front teeth, flicking his tongue along one of those big fangs that could shred his throat to barbecue. It tastes as good as he thought it would. Everything about this man is so good, and he wonders how he went so long without another vampire.

"How old are you?"

Shiro has time to answer only when Keith darts his mouth to the healing wounds on his neck. Returning Shiro's earlier gesture, he licks the spot clean, raking his fangs along the coagulating blood as if scraping paint. When most of it is washed, Shiro has walked them into a curtained-off back hallway with zero light source. The air is dense with the scent of stale blood, but Keith ignores it as he pets back the man's bangs and continues to playfully nip bruises to the surface of his skin. Keith licks up his Adam's apple, and Shiro raggedly speaks.

"I was born in 1632. I quit doing the math a while ago."

"You're three hundred and sixty-five," Keith answers, unaffected by this. "I'm fifty-eight."

"Christ on a cross," Shiro whispers, but Keith laughs.

"Too young?"

"Sixty is usually my cutoff and that's when I'm in a _mood_."

"Are you in a _mood_?"

Shiro opens a door with his hip and chuckles. By then, Keith's eyes have adjusted to the pitch blackness. He can't decipher the colors of his surroundings quite yet. It's something that develops later on into elder status. Shiro is descending stairs, though. That much he can determine.

"How long did you know I was following you?" Keith asks.

He laughs at that and Keith plops his cheek onto his shoulder, waiting for his reply with a lopsided frown. "Do you want me to bruise your stalking ego?"

"It takes a lot to hurt my feelings."

"As soon as you saw me. I'm aware of how I come off to younger vampires, but usually, they're trained onto a sire who teaches them that scent trailing is not only rude but the vampire equivalent to being lecherous." Shiro smiles when Keith snorts. Keith doesn't see it, but when he licks Shiro's neck in protest, Shiro grins. "You wouldn't know that, though. Zarkon has a history of creating young vampires to purge some chaotic statement against humans. Usually, another elder kills them before they can cause trouble. It's amazing you're even alive right now. You must've been born with a soft temperament. Do you socialize?"

"No," Keith says quickly. He doesn't act as if he cares either way, and he's convinced he doesn't care when he says it. That doesn't dismiss the sobbing on Shiro's lap from earlier, and Shiro hasn't forgotten.

"I didn't think so," he says.

"What does Zarkon even do?" Keith asks, pointedly changing the topic.

Shiro hits the bottom step but doesn't bother to turn on a light. Keith sees a bed frame and blinks to drink in the color of it, but he can't. It looks wooden. It's sturdy and the mattress rises high off the ground. Accustomed to sleeping in no-name motels in remote towns, Keith has tired floral bedspreads and uninspiring dollar-porn ingrained in his soul. He doesn't remember what it's like to sleep in a bed inside a lived-in home, but as he pieces together Shiro's identity, something tells Keith this isn't his home either. An eerie thought cloaks him, and he wonders what he's told the original owner's neighbors.

Shiro deposits Keith onto the bed, but Keith reaches for him and begins to hyperventilate.

"I'll be right there," Shiro coos as if talking to a baby. "Calm down."

Keith wrinkles his nose and watches him drift into a tiny bathroom tucked away in the corner of the finished basement. There's the sound of running water, fabric hitting the floor, and Shiro returns shirtless with a clean neck and washcloth in hand. Keith's pupils expand at the sight of his naked chest. He can't tell if he wants to eat again or just deep sniff wherever his scent is coming from. He figures he won't be able to have another meal for weeks to come. The thought alone provokes despondency.

Keith seats himself on the edge of the bed, and Shiro kneels down in front of him. Like an infant after being spoon fed, Shiro boldly begins to wipe his mouth. Keith is stunned by the gesture, but his shock doesn't linger long. At first, he likes the pampering, but then his dignity returns and he swiftly turns his head to catch Shiro's wrist with his teeth. He bears down in a warning he realizes can't be that threatening.

In comparison to Shiro, he's inarguably weak.

"I can wipe my own mouth."

Shiro winks at him. "You sure about that?"

Keith jerks the cloth from his hand and scrubs at his lips, never breaking eye contact with Shiro who snorts at the clumsiness. This laughter is followed by Keith tossing the dirty rag at his face, and it lands with a wet splat. Keith hums in self-satisfaction and toes off his shoes as Shiro slowly removes the cloth from his face. For several seconds, he watches Keith shed his socks and scoot back to make use of the bed, but this doesn't fair well with Shiro. Using his previously disclosed speed, Shiro lunges for Keith and pushes the other vampire down by his neck. He quickly pins him, even though Keith yells, and begins to wipe the bloody spray off his face.

"Stop it!" Keith hisses and jerks his head to the left. His neck pops. "I'm not a baby!"

"I'll be the judge of that," he says and keeps wiping the blood out of his hair like a lioness licking against the grain.

Keith tries to knee between Shiro's legs, but Shiro catches him by the kneecap. He continues to wipe until Keith realizes he's outmatched and melodramatically goes limp for the second time that night. His head turns to the side and Shiro manages to scrub behind his ears. Keith closes his eyes and hisses again and again, but Shiro ignores his aggravation until his face and neck are spotless.

"We need to work on clean eating."

"Are you going to act like you didn't enjoy it?" Keith mutters, cheeks rubbed rosy.

Shiro exhales and tosses the rag into oblivion. Only in the evening will Keith realize it landed in the laundry basket.

"We also need to work on manners."

"We are not working on anything," he says and Shiro pointedly ignores that as he heaves himself to his feet and changes into a pair of sweatpants. He tosses Keith his own pair, but when Keith steps into them, he's faced with the dilemma that is their waist disparity. Keith tightens the drawstring and removes his shirt. As soon as he does, he feels the primal gaze of Shiro from the bed.

Until being insulted, he thought he was going to get laid.

"I can't just set you free," Shiro says, but he says it wistfully as if he hates the entire situation. Keith has no doubt he does. "You don't even understand the social circumstances of being Zarkon's surviving whelp. If he catches a whiff of you and calls you back, then that could be an issue."

Keith realizes there's an agenda at hand. He lowers himself onto his side, distrustfully looking at Shiro. "Why does that matter to you?"

"You _really_ don't know?" Shiro asks, and it is then Keith realizes this is dangerous information he's missed. He pretends not to be embarrassed by his continual ignorance. "Zarkon is the proprietor for the biggest vampire coven in the southern United States. The _Ardus Ad Solem_? He calls his role the _Sancta Sedes_ and you're a _Sancta Simplicitas_. Their motto is _naturalia non sunt turpia_."

"What does that mean?"

Shiro exhales nice and slow. He shoves back his bangs in disbelief. "And you're a vampire who doesn't know Latin."

"I was born in San Francisco in 1939. Do you know what was happening in 1939 in San Francisco? World War II was happening. Latin was the least of my family's worries. My dad was trying not to leave his family. Did you know Latin twenty-something years after 1632? I have a feeling you didn't."

Shiro ignores that, but glances to the side, caught in his own vampire elitism. He clears his throat and continues on with his point.

"The phrase ' _ardus ad solemn'_ means 'to seek the sun.' _Sancta Sedes_ means 'holy seat,' which is also used by the Pope, and _Sancta Simplicitas_ is 'holy innocence.' Their motto means what's natural isn't dirty. I used to be an _Amicus Curiae_ about two hundred years ago. Basically, I was an advisor and soldier. He's been here for as long as this country has existed as is. Zarkon literally brought vampires to the United States."

"Or thinks he did."

Shiro props his cheek up in his palm and stares at Keith, not touching that one. "He's an advocate for vampire domination. He's already put the fear of God into humans in Europe. Last I heard, he has multiple governments beneath his thumb like big red buttons. The United States is massive, though. He's been attempting to foster friendships with werewolves and other fae since he arrived, but considering what they've seen humans do to other humans? Let's just say they're not that interested in someone who wants to out them all at once. Everyone knows it'd cause both mass hysteria and a killing spree."

Keith lets that blanket him. Wordlessly, he falls onto his back and stares up at the dark ceiling, hands resting on his chest. He digests the information before speaking.

"Werewolves exist."

Nothing is said for several seconds. Shiro allows the pregnant pause to swell until dropping it nice and low. He clears his throat.

"You didn't know werewolves exist?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe Shiro's a drug lord. I can't believe Lance is... well, Lance.

People and places; a theme, a monkey's fist in the gut, an obstinate dichotomy Keith hasn't stopped dwelling on since the evening Shiro body slammed him onto his kitchen floor. It's an idea that transcends the two vampires' first meeting and bleeds into the pink neon currently painting the white table they're seated at. Beneath them are two chrome stools that stand so high Keith feels like he's floating, and _Lovefool_ is sputtering through the diner's speakers. Keith has heard the song on what's felt like a year-long loop. The singer's desperation spills from passing car windows, rises from speakers hidden beneath bathroom sinks in bars and haunts him in cinema lobbies during his hunts. Thoughts of the long-suffering crooning being shirked from Billboard's top twenty makes Keith think about masturbation and the sun.

"Could be eating right now," Keith says emptily, mouth slack.

He is not empty, though. Shiro offered his throat an hour before they left the house together, and he is a sloshy little bag of blood. What is empty is the diner, which to be fair, makes sense. It's midnight on a Wednesday evening and Rover's was established with two indisputable facts; their pies could assassinate a lesser man and it exists smack dab in the exclave widely celebrated as Bumfuck Nowhere. If the unfortunate trucker finds himself famished and parks for a bite, then he is the talk of the town for weeks.

"Eat your cherry pie," Shiro mutters.

"Don't incense my refined palate, Shiro. I don't want any cherry pie that isn't yours."

Shiro blinks at the white ceramic mug wedged between his palms. His expression is that of a man who is planting seeds of regret into rich fertilizer. The soil is a fruitful mix comprised of four-hundred-years' worth of bullshit. Shiro has lived lifetimes and yet this is the point in which he decides to plant. The point being Keith.

Shiro tears his glazed eyes from the mug. Line of sight never leaving the door, he sips. "The whipped cream is decent. They make it in house."

"I don't like human food anymore. I haven't touched it in years."

"Spare us both the drama and eat it. I don't want to have to order you around. The sooner you learn how to blend in with human society again, then the sooner we can part ways."

"It fucking hurts," Keith admits beneath his breath. Personal weakness isn't something he's accustomed to acknowledging, but Shiro is an ancient vampire. Far removed or not, he has to at least _understand_ the struggle. "Being around humankind literally hurts. They smell too good, even the old ones smell awesome. I'm not ready to give up the thirst. I don't think I'm old enough to try."

"It takes years to master," Shiro whispers. He sets down his mug and reluctantly looks away from the door. His eyes lower onto Keith who is molesting the cherry pie with non-committal stabs. He reaches to touch Keith's shoulder, but his suspended fingers twitch. He thinks twice and lets them fall onto the table. "Years from now, you're going to thank yourself for starting when you did."

Keith reaches for the back of his neck and digs his subtly pointed nails into a phantom itch. Shiro is right beside him, and Keith can smell how he's still warm to the touch from his last kill. Keith wants to carve Shiro's throat like a roast and dry hump his lap. Deep down, Keith knows being fucked open would soften the rage in his nerves, but Shiro has made it clear he's keeping him at an arm's length.

The door bangs open, and in struts a man who looks like he shed real tears when Kurt Cobain was pronounced dead above the garage. Lanky but filled out in his tie-dye flannel ensemble, his boots lazily scuff across checkered tiles, and he wears a cocky grin that's too white not to snap Keith to attention. His short, brown hair is unkempt, but his eyes are clean, clear and blue like the seashells Keith used to collect.

He snaps his attention to their table, and Keith's spine erects against its will. Shiro sucks back the final dregs from his mug and gestures at the waitress for a refill.

"Shiro! Brother, you are so miserable looking!"

Keith shoots Shiro an incredulous squint. "You know him?"

"Of course he does," dirty boy says too confidently. He's loud, but the diner's other patrons treat him as if he's invisible. To Keith, it's an eerie disregard. Someone that obnoxious so late should ruffle feathers.

Shiro pushes against the table and spins the stool to let himself free. He stands, and Keith notes how imposing he is in his white muscle tee and black leather jacket. The threat doesn't lie in what he wears, though. It's the shoulders, Keith decides. He's large and his muscles are imperially rigid.

Shiro and the stranger embrace with a back smacking hug, and they almost look like convincing friends. There's something off, though. The touch carries hidden formality, and it's stiff.

"Tell me you brought the stuff here and you're not going to make me walk all the way back to your house."

"Negative," Shiro says, the corner of his mouth twitching when his friend throws up his hands and mutters ' _of course_.'

"Because that would be easy," the man continues to mock. He ruffles his own hair and doesn't bother to smooth it back down. "As a rule, Takashi Shirogane doesn't do easy."

"Easy always leaves behind a paper trail. You're too old to underestimate humankind's ability to recognize patterns. Anyway, do you have somewhere to be? You're not losing time."

Keith shifts in his seat. He realizes their guest isn't human, but he can't trace vampire scents yet. He centers himself and attempts to concentrate, but nothing noteworthy comes to mind.

The man parts his lips, stunned. They broaden into a thrilled smile. "Touché."

He takes a seat across from Keith, and a mug appears in front of him. Dirty boy grabs the sugar canister and pours a liberal amount into his tar coffee. His eyes flick onto Keith, and he gives the vampire a hard once over that could be described as aggressive. Keith cocks an eyebrow, waiting, but the man's sunny demeanor drops into bored disinterest. He tilts his head in the direction of Shiro who is nursing his drink.

"You never struck me as the daddy type, Shiro."

"I didn't change this one. He's Zarkon's."

He shifts his stare onto the wall. "Not what I meant by daddy, but interesting either way. How did you land this kid, though? They keep getting younger, Shiro. I see you."

"Who are you?" Keith asks before Shiro can give his rebuttal.

Keith doesn't know why, but he wants to flash his fangs. He feels cornered, ready to hiss. In his mind, he's a cat in a tree and this person has him visualizing a dog barking up a tall trunk. If he moves, then there's a chance he'll be treated like a ragdoll between teeth.

"Eyes," Shiro chides. "Your eyes, Keith."

"Lance," the man says, unimpressed by Keith's posturing. His stare is frost on a cold mug, and Keith's ears train themselves on Lance's lack of breathing. He has no heartbeat.

"Etiquette," Shiro tries again. He carefully reaches for Keith and slides his fingers into the hair on the back of the man's head. Keith thoughtlessly leans into the touch, and his eyes cool from red to mauve.

"What are you?" Keith tries again. He begins to anxiously shake a thigh, and Shiro airily drags his nails down the back of Keith's neck as if to whisper 'it's okay.'

"He's a prince," Shiro answers, talking to a toddler.

Keith shifts backward, disbelieving, and Lance dismissively shrugs. "I'm a little excommunicated right now, but we're working on it."

Keith plays along, but it's evident by his scrunched nose that he feels swindled. His mouth shifts to the side. "Right. Sure. Prince of _what_?"

"The fairies," Shiro teases. He smiles into his coffee and sputters a delayed laugh.

"I'm a vampire," Keith states, but not because he believes Lance didn't already know this, "and I'm still prepared to call bullshit on you both. Fairies aren't real. For some reason, this is the thing I'm not going to believe. At this point, I have a twenty-four-hour limit. Werewolves capped me out."

Lance is no longer dulled by Keith's presence. Something sinks in, and his eyes fly open. He slowly cranes his neck at Shiro. "How new is this guy, Shiro? Don't make me call the cops, you freak."

"The vampire cops," Shiro jokes, dry and tired of Lance's age vigilance.

"Fifty-eight," Keith answers readily. Shiro sighs and sets down his mug, freeing Keith's neck.

Shiro drops his face into a palm and focuses on Keith. He drums his fingers along the table top and narrows his eyes. "Ever hear about those people who get abducted and don't leave their house for fifteen years, entirely robbed of their sense of social pacing? Imagine that. He had no sire."

"Don't you leeches have programs for rogue baby vampires? You're telling me this tight ass little twink flew under the radar for fifty fucking years?"

"What did you call me?"

Shiro does not deny nor confirm whether or not Keith is a tight ass little twink. He disregards the label and stares down Lance who is matching his gaze with a lopsided frown and arched eyebrow.

"He's civil," Shiro explains to Lance, but he's reluctant. This is information he wants to keep to himself. "At this age, it's an anomaly. Older rogue vampires have caused more damage than he has. He was staying in that motel on the west end, and the owners are still alive. He hasn't murdered a single guest on site, which is unheard of. Zarkon would simmer if he knew I had him."

Lance twists his mouth and inspects Keith. "You mean the motel where they found the body sewn into the mattress? That wasn't you?"

"No," Keith says, aggravated. He nearly sticks out his tongue. "That's too showy."

Lance already understood Shiro's implications, but something about Keith's reply convinces him. Keith doesn't understand and is left listening with an acute glare. Lance lifts his mug but forgets to drink. "This is good shit, Shiro, but can a vampire replace another vampire's sire?"

"Not to my knowledge. If it's been done, then it's been done in total secrecy probably as a point of pride. No one wants to admit they've lost their spawn to another. It's a bad look."

Shiro and Lance stare one another down in quiet knowingness. It's apprehensive, uncertain. Lance breaks the silence and manages a thoughtful hum.

"He's not striking. He's pretty, but he's not striking. A little plain. Pretty, though. He'll get prettier with age, of course. Hasn't made the change yet."

"If handled well," Shiro says, "then he'll be hitting his secondary spurt soon. As soon as that happens, he'll be burning for Zarkon's validation."

"I'll be what?" Keith asks, reinserting himself into the moment. "What's a secondary spurt?"

"Call it vampire puberty," Lance offers. "You become stronger, prettier, thirstier, and somehow, significantly hornier –"

"Not always," Shiro interjects, sighing. "Don't use horny. It's pedestrian."

"Haven't met one who hasn't been that way, but whatever you think will reassure the kid." Lance turns his attention fully to Keith. "After second puberty, you're mentally centered, so how you access all of those vampire traits is far more calculative and dangerous. It's conniving. All you batty bastards are."

Shiro decides to contribute before Lance mashes facts. "Secondary is the stage when you're supposed to be trained off your sire. The secondary spurt is a week-long event with your sire. It's like saying goodbye, but most vampires stick around because they're not quite ready or they're financially dependent."

Lance lifts a finger. "Like college kids who move back in with their parents after graduating."

Keith vacantly takes a bite of pie. He chews it to give his mouth something to do as he thinks. The ashy quality makes him wrinkle his nose. When no informed opinion makes its way to his lips, Keith helplessly glances at Shiro. He doesn't know what any of the information means for him.

Shiro resigns himself to an understanding, but still rueful, smile. "We'll talk about it later. You're in a complicated place, Keith. No need to worry about it right now."

"You're being kind, Shiro. This cream-filled pumpkin roll has every reason to be worried."

Keith's nostrils become stargates. "Could you not insult me?"

"I'm calling it as I see it. Stop acting like you have room to breathe here, let alone be offended in my presence."

Preservation circling the drain, Keith jerks forward to lunge, but Lance simply waits. Shiro darts a hard glare at Keith, and Keith's head feels like it's been violently shoved into a bucket full of salty ice water. His face numbs, his breathing stifles, and Keith haggardly attempts to cough his lungs clear. He's drowning in air. Keith vigorously shakes his head and stomps his foot like a petulant child.

"Look at me," Shiro hisses.

Keith presses his fingers into his temple. He rasps, but no one in the diner seems to notice or care. If he wasn't already dead, and if breathing wasn't just a comfort to his body, a habit, then he would assume he's dying. Not true, though. He's being tortured. Keith grinds his teeth and yells out in protest, but the scream lodges in his throat.

He slams a hand onto Shiro's shoulder. He pleads for help with the tight grip.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Keith."

Though its like pulling teeth, Keith shifts his eyes to Shiro. The man is hunkered down on his level, eyes two red pools. Keith's chest stutters when he sees Shiro's fangs peeking above his bottom lip. It's thick and its pallor is perfect. Keith is struck by the mental image of Shiro gouging his throat, and at once, he can breathe again. He's lost in the sensory overload that's hallucinating about Shiro bleeding him out.

Keith's head rushes with his own screams, pleas. They're agonized at first, but they swiftly meld into moans synched with Shiro's husky breathing.

He thought the magic was Lance, but he was wrong. It's Shiro. Shiro is infiltrating his space. Betrayal writes itself across Keith's face, but he can't rationalize why. He doesn't know Shiro. He's fed on him twice and slept in his bed one day, but the invasiveness is terrifying. Keith has tried to navigate his autonomy for five decades, and losing himself even more than he already has is his biggest fear.

Shiro speaks, anchoring Keith back down.

"If you're going to look at me with hatred, then get the facts straight, Keith. Lance is triple my age. He's no prince of mine, but he is a prince to the oldest species in our circle. He possesses magic that could degenerate the very matter of your body. If you think dying by sunlight is scary, then imagine someone picking apart your atoms and dispersing them back into the lakes, the trees, the flowers. He'll do that if you threaten him and with no love loss. Fae and vampires aren't necessarily pals."

"Thank you, Shiro," Lance says, pleased with the clarification. "Are we done here? I'm tired of holding up this spell. You know how prolonged stupefaction spells and humans don't mix well, and we keep nailing the same people in this place. Magical carcinogens, basically."

Keith is in over his head. He realizes this and says nothing more.

It isn't until Shiro has paid the bill and they're ambling through the night air toward Shiro's house does Keith realize he cried.

Lance prattles, losing Keith in his winded complaints and medical jargon. "Those biopsy needles weren't as nice as the last ones. The twist-lock function was harder to use, and it took way longer to extract. I don't want a diagnostic specimen. I want to fill coolers and get paid. You're making life hard, Shiro."

"The supplier switch was temporary. We got your old ones back."

Keith is still beside himself when they step into the farmhouse's humid living room. Crickets chirp, but nothing interrupts Keith's bullet train brain. Still not looking at Shiro or Lance, Keith uncertainly hovers on the room's opposite end. His senses pick up on Lance pilfering, inspecting throw pillows and the 'For Mom' ashtray Shiro is yet to deposit his keys into.

"This place is a dump, Shiro. When are your renovations going to be done and over with? Also, has anyone taught you about this luxury called air conditioning? It's great. Try it sometime."

"Doesn't bother me. The basement stays cold and that's where I sleep." Shiro drops his keys into the ashtray Lance is holding. "Do you want water?"

"With ice."

Shiro doesn't acknowledge Keith, but Keith trails him into the kitchen like a duckling. Lance takes a seat in the bloodstained chair and lounges back, kicking his boots onto the coffee table.

Keith wants to say something about the fact Shiro was able to stop him in his tracks. Surely, there has to be a way to make sure it never happens again, but Keith doesn't think he can ask that of Shiro. He feels invaded, though. Like someone took hold of his neurons and categorized them for him. If his brain had a bed, then Shiro slipped into it without his permission.

His fingers haven't stopped shaking since they left Rover's.

"Shiro," Keith tries, but he forgets how to talk. His brain is scrambled, and whatever Shiro did took his emotional stability and wrung it out. Normally, he'd be kicking and screaming, but he can't.

The older vampire takes his time acknowledging Keith.

"You know, Keith, if you're bored, then you can go downstairs and watch cable or something. It was commandeered by the previous owner's adult grandson, and there are video games and movies. Not sure if you're into that, but it's something to do while I finish up with Lance."

Keith's eyes dart down but shoot back up. His face wrinkles in frustration because the words aren't coming to him. Unbothered by Keith's silence, Shiro grabs a short glass decorated with purple daisies and sets it on the counter. When he abandons it for an ice tray, Keith approaches the glass and waits for Shiro to return. Shiro stops in front of Keith and cracks the tray, freeing ice with loud pops. He drops the tray onto the counter but he doesn't pluck free the cubes. Rather, Shiro turns his attention to Keith who's yet to explain why he's haunting Shiro's every move.

Shiro crosses his arms and waits for Keith to speak his mind.

"That thing you did in the diner," Keith mutters, eyes tracing the designs in the flooring. "What was that?"

"I should apologize," Shiro offers. "Forcing you into anything isn't how I want to go about this, but you underestimated what Lance can do. He doesn't have to be benevolent."

Much too late, it occurs to Keith he doesn't want to make this absolute stranger apologize to him for saving his ass from a fairy prince. His brain glitches once more, and Keith clears his throat, barreling through Shiro's apology at the speed of sound.

"Never mind. It's okay. Well, no. Morally speaking, it's kind of disgusting, but who's counting? Shiro, I just want to eat." Keith seizes Shiro's jacket. His fingers curl around the lapel's sturdy leather, and he tugs Shiro as much as he can. "Please. It'll calm me down."

Shiro is resolute like a mountain.

"You can wait until we're done here," Shiro coos. "The ice is melting."

The idea of waiting makes Keith's jaw lock. He tries not to beg with Lance in the other room. "Take care of me. Shiro, I thought that's why you took me in. You're feeding me."

Shiro looks to God. Whether or not God replies, Keith doesn't know. Shiro chuckles and runs his middle finger down Keith's straight nose. He taps the tip, and Keith sneezes. "Teaching you self-control and conduct is me taking care of you, too."

Keith slides his palms down the front of Shiro's barrel chest. He drops off at the shirt hem and floats his hands beneath the loose fabric, pushing spread fingers along the taut muscle. Keith's eyes become warm, attune to every micro-detail shaping Shiro's face, and his fangs rip free with a crunching gum line.

"Keith," Shiro warns. It's gentle, tender fondness written into the tone. "Go sit down."

"I don't like Lance," Keith murmurs, fingers counting Shiro's naked ribs. "He's a fucker."

Shiro sucks in a breath. He allows Keith to keep touching while he finishes preparing the glass of water. He even hums in appreciation when Keith's nails graze the sides of his waist, thumbs petting his hip bones. He doesn't speak again until he has to pull away to turn off the faucet. "You could call it a mutual feeling. Not to paint a picture for you, but I don't think you made a good first impression."

"Sure didn't!" Lance shouts from the living room. His laugh is bitter. "You little fucker!"

To appease the baby vampire, Shiro leans down and nibbles the shell of Keith's ear but evades Keith's attempt to kiss him on the mouth.

"No," Shiro whispers.

Lance shouts again. "He's _already_ horny! Nice catch, Shiro."

Keith scowls but gathers his rejections and finds a seat in the living room where Lance apathetically watches him. Even as Shiro sets the sweating glass onto a coaster, Lance is zeroed in on Keith and Keith alone. He's dissecting, Keith realizes. He's interested.

"I'll be right back," Shiro says and slowly turns over his shoulder. "For the love of God, play nice."

"No God here," Lance calls back. He doesn't speak again until Shiro's footsteps have disappeared. "Do you even know what your daddy bat does?"

"Don't call him that," Keith snaps, lips yanked into a frown. "I hardly know the guy."

"Well, do you?" Lance impatiently probes.

"No," Keith confesses.

"God, you are _green_."

Keith's stare darts toward the curtained off hallway, and it occurs to him he doesn't like being left alone with Lance, period. Keith isn't used to being around someone who both dislikes him and could overpower him with the snap of his fingers. His brain wants to reject the idea someone who looks fresh out of high school is capable of mutilating him, but then again, Keith knows he doesn't look much older himself.

Keith had trust issues before, but this is an emotional hook, line, and sinker.

Shiro returns with a dated maroon suitcase. Its crevices are stuffed with dust and its silk lining is orange and peeking out from the sides. Shiro drops it onto the coffee table beside Lance's untouched glass. He undoes the metal clasps with ominous clicks, and when the lid pops open, Keith leans to get a better look.

Lance doesn't move from his lounged position. "That's a lot of needles, Shiro."

"Business is booming. Summer means less night, and the locals need an extra kick." Shiro slams the suitcase shut and seals it for Lance. "The money's where it usually is. Get these needles filling vials ASAP or we're both shit out of cash, got it? Another delay like last month, and you're done."

Lance's boots pull off the table and hit the ground with dead clunks. "You got it, boss man."

He takes the suitcase, righting it and then sliding it off the table. Lance lets his arm hyperextend as he and Shiro chat about random addresses and names Keith doesn't have a reason to remember. The two men side hug once more, which is suddenly even stranger to Keith, and Lance dips out after blowing a small kiss in Keith's direction. Keith scowls and turns his face away, guts heavy with hot stones.

Not once did Lance touch the glass of water.

"You're a drug dealer," Keith says, accusingly. He can't tell if he's actually mad about the drugs or if he's just that put off by Lance.

All signs point to both.

Shiro lifts a palm to the back of his head. He tips it back and squeezes his eyes shut. "Not human drugs."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

"It's called bone marrow," Shiro explains, unafraid of Keith's scrutiny. "It's harvested human bone marrow that's reconstituted in labs. Vampires inject it like heroin. There's big money in it."

"Is that what those needles were for? Bone marrow?"

"Yes. Before you ask, Lance is good at his job and owes me. He follows vampires while they hunt and then scavenges their corpses for marrow. Because he's not drawn to the blood, he doesn't get distracted. Not to mention, even ancient vampires have a difficult time detecting him, so he's made for the job."

Keith snorts. "He _would_ be the vulture."

"Vulture or not, he's my biggest moneymaker."

"He makes it easier, but can't anyone harvest bone marrow?" Keith asks. "It can't be that special if all humans have it."

"Cracking open human bone is a pain in the ass, and vampires are impatient creatures. There are time limits and equipment involved the layman can't access. Vampires, as you know too well, have gratuity issues. They want their drink now. They want their marrow faster."

Keith considers this. He picks at his Nike laces, and for some reason, feels ill. "Do you harvest bone marrow?"

"Not since I left Zarkon's inner-circle." Shiro takes a seat in the chair Lance abandoned. Keith sees his lap like an open invitation and stands. Shiro pauses to assess Keith's movements, but he keeps speaking when Keith deposits himself onto his thighs. As Shiro casually slips an arm behind Keith's back, Keith sprawls over both chair arms, lounging like a belly-up lapdog. Shiro rests his other arm on Keith's stomach, and Keith lazily kicks his hanging legs back and forth. "He deals in Grade A bone marrow, but there's no dignity in that line of work. It's one of many reasons I left the coven."

"There are different grades?" Keith asks.

Shiro absently sweeps his fingers across Keith's cheek, unconscious of their current intimacy. "Bone marrow is categorized into three grades. C grade is the elderly, B grade is adults to young adults, and then A grade is the lower end of teens, children, and finally, infants."

"Infant killing is tacky," Keith murmurs, body dissolving into rest mode.

"Try repulsive." Shiro effortlessly sits Keith up. "There are mass graves behind Zarkon's mansion. Mass graves I personally saw and smelled. If Zarkon ever approaches you and you agree to follow him, then you're complicit with that. At your age, it's difficult to find value in humanity. You're quicker, stronger and humans feel primitive, but we're not like werewolves or fae who are born into their sovereignty. We're nothing without humans."

Keith stares. The pause is charged. "We're nothing without them because we are human."

Pleased, Shiro nods. "Now that is self-awareness I didn't anticipate for another three-hundred-years."

"We were once humans, and now we're just blood sucking humans. Don't tell me that's not common knowledge. We're vampires. We're not stupid. It's simple."

"It's not simple when creating other vampires is built on elitism, Keith. Understand, I've never turned a human. Those who recognize its curse won't breed from an ethical standpoint. This is why one school of thought prevails. Mine would kill out the vampires, but I don't care. Humanity is sacred to me. I'd give up immortality for humanity any day."

Keith considers this.

His stare glazes as it peers through Shiro's exposed throat and his mind opens like an ocean. Lapping waves rush him, and like the first time he drank from Shiro's veins, Keith is overwhelmed by the light radiating from Shiro. It reminds him of being entirely submerged, the pleasant gurgle of air releasing from his ears while looking up at the surface. 

Shiro traces Keith's Adam's apple, and Keith wants more. Not more in the sense of blood or sex, but he wants more of Shiro's person. More, more, more.

More respect. That's what he wants. He wants to be respected, but weighing fifty-eight years against three hundred seems incongruous with Shiro's entire outlook on baby vampire existences. Keith deflates, but he doesn't notice the way Shiro sees his shifting mood.

"Come on," Shiro whispers and taps Keith's chin. "Let's feed you."

"Here?" Keith asks and stands to reposition himself on Shiro's lap.

Shiro shakes his head and heaves himself to his feet. He steps past Keith and walks toward the hallway.

"It's less hassle in the shower," Shiro says and tugs his shirt overhead.

Keith's eyes sink into the muscles clinging to his alabaster shoulder blades.

Together they descend into the basement. 

"Lance mentioned it, but why _are_ vampires always horny?"

"Backing up to the human conversation," Shiro says. He stretches his arms high above his head with a grunt, and Keith watches his muscles ripple. "Our vampire brains are aware enough to know they're constantly on the brink of death. Sure fucking makes us feel alive. We're literally doing that thing that mimics making life, but it's amplified during feeding because feeding engages the human fight or flight response, which then becomes the urge to breed."

"Death inherently means continuing the human race?"

Shiro laughs at that. "Circle of life or whatever."

Shiro turns on the downstairs light, and Keith notices the blood from their earlier feed is coagulated along the metal chair. Shiro decisively sat in it when Keith alluded to wanting to use the bed. After protesting, Shiro put his foot down with a growl, and Keith sleepily relinquished his fight.

"Are you still horny all the time?" Keith boldly asks. Fortunately for Shiro, Keith sounds dry, not implicative.

"That is the worst word," Shiro gripes. Keith's eyes shamelessly watch him undo his belt and step out of boots. "I'm not as promiscuous as I used to be. It ebbs with age, but it doesn't necessarily dilute. The novelty passes, I guess."

"Getting old?"

Shiro doesn't humor the jab. He shucks tight denim and finishes stripping without hesitation. Suddenly, he's chiseled and exposed, and Keith's fangs collapse for the third time that night. Shiro smiles, but that's as far as his recognition goes.

"I'm ancient," Shiro finally says and disappears into the bathroom.

For the sake of curiosity, Shiro is hung. Even soft and uninterested, his cock is heavy and present with a slight blush Keith didn't know he could still appreciate. Seeing the uncut appendage on someone else and not simultaneously aching for a kill is as foreign as it is fresh for Keith. It's like drinking the very water Lance left behind upstairs, and while Shiro's blood is reaching for him, Keith's belly is still dripping with thick heat. He wants to fuck.

Keith follows Shiro's lead and strips. "Are you going to wash my hair for me?"

Shiro slips a hand beneath the spray, testing the temperature. He adjusts it and waits. "I'll strike a deal, Keith. If you can spend the entire feed without getting hard, then I'll wash every inch of you."

"Cocky," Keith accuses, lips creating a thin line. "You might be the centerfold for this month's issue of Playgirl, but I have some semblance of dignity, okay? You're not my official sire."

"What a fresh peach," Shiro murmurs under his breath. He raises his voice. "Is it a deal or not?"

"It's a deal."

A long journey away from his human modesty, Keith stands nude with his arms crossed over his chest. He watches Shiro's naked form pull the switch that gives the showerhead life. It's a tiny stall, but Keith knows it'll do the job for the time being.

Shiro steps into the tub behind the shower curtain. Keith knows he's waiting.

"The feeding hasn't even started, and I've already won!" Shiro shouts. 

Keith furrows his brow and mouths 'what.' He glances down and feels his face flood with the minimal amount of blood left in his body. His baby vampire metabolism is merciless.

"It doesn't count until we're in the shower together," Keith tries, but Shiro is already laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always a bar, there's always a car, and no one is ever in character, but I'm having a great time here. I'm so glad I got to continue this. I know it was forever in between updates and I'm elbow deep in Picosecond and other things, but this was such a nice return to the ridiculous sheith I love to write. Also, they're really cute in this.

Keith is lying on the living room rug, staring down the reflective nothing of a turned off television screen, when Shiro is gracious enough to shatter the humid silence with a suggestion.

"We could go to the grocery store," Shiro offers, watching Keith's deflated form from the couch.

Like prying stuck bacon from a pan, Keith rolls onto his side. "That's punishment."

"There's coffee at the diner."

"No." Keith closes his eyes. "We might run into Lance again, and the last thing I want to deal with is someone itching to pick a fight. I'm not in a patient mood. Might blow your cover."

"Fair enough," Shiro concedes.

Picking at a carpet fiber trying to stand tall, Keith grunts. "You have to be bored, too. There's no way you're okay with sitting around and doing this much nothing, Shiro. No way in hell."

"Time is still different for me than it is for you." He tosses a quilted throw pillow. It bounces off Keith's ass and lands on its side, looking almost as miserable as Keith. "You'll feel it in your mid-one hundreds."

"Great," Keith murmurs and plucks the fiber free. "I'll be counting the days."

Their routine isn't what Keith could fairly call terrible. If he had to use any word, then it'd be boring, so maybe terribly boring.

To go from seducing and stalking prey through all hours of the night to waiting like a baby in a highchair for Shiro to return from hunts would create self-destructive restlessness in any young vampire.

At this point, Keith has their daily routine down to a monotonous science; eat until Shiro is irritated, swallow mouthfuls of ashy coffee beside diner windows while Shiro chats up waitresses, return their rented stack of mediocre movies, rent another stack of mediocre movies, and then listlessly wait for the sun to rise. When Shiro feels like they've become too predictable, he inserts minor disruptors, but it's nothing Keith would want to call home about. In fact, as he mentioned, most of it is punishment.

Sometimes they pad through the bleak twenty-four-hour grocery with its trembling fluorescent light. There Keith yearns to taste things like flash frozen Salisbury steak tossed on top of soupy mashed potatoes smothered in nondescript brown gravy. His mouth salivates when he handles packets of chipped deli turkey, and nothing but blood makes his heart pound faster than a two-day old birthday cake on sale.

It's all processed and reputably disgusting, but Keith wants to know what it tastes like. When he's jonesing to the point of obsession, Keith makes Shiro buy the brightest box of sugary cereal on the shelf. He knows the end result is choking up ash, but that doesn't stop him from stuffing fistfuls into his mouth while they watch another one of their serendipitous romantic comedies that makes Keith bitter.

"People don't work like this," Keith reminds Shiro at every opportunity. Sometimes to the point of distraction. "Love doesn't work like this."

"Then tell me about love, Keith."

A response that brings the commentary to a screeching, tire shredding stop.

On the off chance Lance makes an appearance, Shiro ushers Keith into the kitchen where he makes him wait, flashing fangs to ensure Keith understands he's serious. If Keith liked Lance, then maybe he'd care, but fortunately, he finds the paper's daily crossword puzzle more enticing than Lance's company.

He wishes that wasn't so, though. As tepid as Shiro is, Keith knows the vampire keeps him at an arm's length. No longer focusing on hunting means Keith has to spend his time elsewhere, and since he can't go elsewhere without Shiro's hawkeye presence, most of the time is spent inside his head. Thinking forces him to acknowledge some things. Such as, he's lonely. Very lonely, in fact, and existential, too. From what he's gathered from Shiro's careful allusions, vampires have occupations, goals and intricate relationships.

Keith can't conceptualize these things, which he figures is normal, but that doesn't soften the fear he'll amount to nothing the same way he amounted to nothing as a human being. He wants to be _something_.

This newfound want inspires Keith to pilfer through the house.

While Shiro looks on from the loveseat, nose pressed into a book, Keith wanders from room to room, unconsciously opening and slamming doors at every turn. The house isn't massive, but there are three bedrooms, an office, and most importantly, an attic piled high with human history. Keith is looking for inspiration, but there isn't much inspiration to be found in rancid dentures, doilies and perfume bottles from 1967. After making two spiders fight outside a closet, Keith settles his hopes and dreams on the attic. It's why he saves the place for last. If all else fails, then maybe he'll find an old record player.

"I'm afraid to ask what you're doing," Shiro says when Keith reaches for the attic string in the hall and tugs it down. He's leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You've been pacing all night."

The attic ladder takes its sweet time falling, landing on the carpet with a soft thud. Determined, Keith steps onto the first rung and tests its integrity.

"I'm losing my mind here," Keith grumbles. "If I have to watch  _Sleepless in Seattle_  one more time, then I might do us both the favor of getting a suntan."

Shiro shifts his mouth to the side. "That's why you're trying to drive me crazy by galloping around the place?"

"Don't be self-important," Keith answers, already climbing and collecting grime on his palms. "The whole point of you keeping me here is to make sure I can function in society alone and what better way to do that than rediscover my human calling? I'm trying to find a  _purpose_. Something to care about."

Shiro approaches the ladder and watches Keith disappear into the black portal. He plants his hands on his hips, thinly smiling. "Not to burst your bubble, but good luck finding purpose in a house that was one common cold away from a Hosparus call. Maybe in a few years, we can enroll you in night classes."

Keith's socked feet shuffle above Shiro in response. A soft click follows and yellow light pours from the ceiling like a dusty call from God. Without warning, Shiro follows Keith and pops his head into the attic space, taking in the cardboard skyscrapers with a weary once over. Keith is already ripping through the tape, pulling open flaps stiff and wrinkled by time, and what Shiro hopes isn't a leak in the roof.

"If you're really that bored then maybe we can do something out of town," Shiro offers. A dust fleck falls into his eye and he tries to fish it out. He grunts. "You need new clothes anyway."

"What I need is a  _life_." Keith slides the first box aside and grabs another. He desperately rifles through romance novels, occasionally pausing to read the backs and wrinkle his nose.

Shiro finishes climbing the ladder and joins Keith in front of the box. Picking up a set aside book, Shiro inhales until his lungs ache. "Clothing can assert identity. If you're looking for that, then you might have a better chance finding it in retail than reading Grandma's impressive collection of erotic paperbacks."

Keith turns the book he's holding toward Shiro. "Are you trying to tell me  _The Velvet Promise_  isn't a therapeutic self-help book? The lady on the cover looks pretty happy to me."

"Is this even within your jurisdiction?" Shiro asks, taking the book from his hands to read the summary. He cracks the novel open and Keith leans away as if Shiro admitted he hadn't bathed in two months.

Keith grabs for another book. "You're implying something here."

" _Her_  velvet promise."

"For all you know, I could be an equal opportunist. You on the other hand..."

Shiro tongues a canine. "Are we doing this right now? This could be  _my_  collection of erotic novels."

"A collection you've rejected by stuffing it in an attic for what looks like years. Doesn't sound like you're interested in a velvet anything." Glancing at the page Shiro opened on, Keith spots the word 'cavern' and feels his throat close. "Put it down. It's not even good erotica. _"_

"Who doesn't love a nice cavern?" Shiro stuffs the book under his armpit. "Some vampires fear the sun. Keith fears poorly executed erotic literature featuring petticoats. I'll be keeping this in mind."

Keith tightens his jaw to hide his determined smile. "And so you're a jerk."

Downstairs, the phone rings. Its bright cry rips through dark and dust. Shiro whacks Keith's lower back with the book and takes it with him as he descends the ladder. Keith watches him disappear from view, and once alone, combs his fingers through his bangs. He scrapes his nails down his throat and fights the want for what he  _thinks_  is blood. More than anything, he wants to be pressed against Shiro's chest.

He strains to hear the phone conversation, picking up on fragments like 'yeah' and 'I'm aware,' but he doesn't gather much else. Keith gives up his eavesdropping exploits and lets Shiro deal with the conversation. He continues on his expedition, unearthing clothes from the mid-60s and an impressive collection of vintage  _Playboy_. Grandma's horny secrets aside, Keith realizes there isn't much wonder in the attic and considers the possibility that Shiro's suggestion to go shopping might be better.

If only he could stand shopping.

Across the attic, a hushed rustling redirects Keith's gaze. He shifts back a shoulder to look for prey, fangs reflexively wrenching free. Keith turns in time to watch a drop cloth fall off a brown leather trunk sporting tarnished gold buckles. He deflates, and embarrassed, rolls his eyes. Keith pads across the attic to investigate, forced to carve a path. The knee-high trunk is the only genuinely interesting thing he's seen thus far, but he doesn't get his hopes up for anything except homoerotic porno tapes featuring mustaches.

For a human, the buckles would require prying, but Keith flips them open with effortless clinks. The lid is heavier than anticipated, and he grunts, tossing it. The hinges crunch. When the lid smacks against the hardwood, one breaks in two. Keith glances from left to right, guilty and searching for a geriatric ghost.

"Sorry, Grandma," he mutters, glancing back down.

Newspapers dating back to 1958 are layered across the trunk's insides, concealing. Keith pushes them aside and finds himself face to face with a thick atlas framed by stacks of letters bound together by twine. The atlas is a booklet with a cover depicting an empty highway shooting through a red desert on the cusp of sundown. Keith tries to thumb through pages but they stick, their ink welded together by water damage. He sets it beside his knees and lifts a stack of molded letters. Turning the heavy parchment in his hands, he reads the word 'Kolivan' and tries to decide whether or not that could be a real name.

Shiro's weight straining the ladder pulls Keith into the present. He drops the letters back into their home and quickly shuts the broken lid, taking the atlas with him as he stands.

"So here's the plan," Shiro says before his head darts into view. He doesn't bother climbing the rest of the way. "We're going to take you shopping and then meet with one of my friends for a quick chat."

Keith fails to hide his suspicions, narrowing his eyes. "Sounds like that was an inspiring phone call."

"They're not even connected. The call interrupted my train of that. That's all." He climbs down but waits at the bottom for Keith. "Did you find anything?"

"A map." Keith drops it through the hole. "Catch."

The booklet smacks against Shiro's waiting palms. As soon as his fingers curl around it, he brings the atlas close and tries to turn the pages the same way Keith did. Noticing the limitation, he carefully pries two pages apart and examines the map's blue veins. His eyes flit from left to right and he chortles, then whipping it shut. "I can't imagine this is up to date. Why are you bringing it down? Planning a vacation?"

Keith climbs the rungs, smiling with shut eyes. "Didn't you hear about that new budget friendly way of taking vacations? It's called hitchhiking. Heard it's really safe."

"Why do I have the feeling you're not the one who should be concerned about safety?"

Once on solid ground, Keith playfully swipes the book from Shiro's hands. "Tell me where we're shopping. Nothing's open right now. It's  _late_. There's a reason I steal clothes."

Shiro follows him into the kitchen, smiling when Keith plops down at the table to smoke. "You act like vampires haven't thought about retail limitations before today."

"So is there like a vampire version of Macy's hidden somewhere?"

"Not exactly," Shiro says, watching Keith rip the cellophane off a new pack. "You'll see."

After his smoke, Shiro gathers his wallet and keys. All Keith can do is follow him into the SUV like a lost puppy with a penchant for chewing on new shoes.

They drive to the nearest mall, its commercial mass looming under the moonlight like a castle meant for conquering. While Keith wants to point out the obvious, that it's closed, he screws his mouth shut and waits for Shiro's constantly evolving set of cues. Only when they're parked and Shiro is knocking on a metal door strictly intended for security employees does Keith break his self-implemented oath of silence.

"Are we robbing the place?" he asks. Keith wonders where this sudden ethical pause comes from. It's not like he has reason to care either way.

"No," Shiro murmurs, sighing as he waits for someone to answer the door. "We're not robbing the place."

A pudgy mall cop no taller than Keith carefully opens the door to a pathetic sliver. He peers through the slit, recognizes Shiro after several rapid blinks, and pops the door open the rest of the way.

"You're out early," he says, carefully scrutinizing Keith. "He's within code, isn't he? Never seen him before."

Shiro is already pushing Keith ahead by the shoulders. "He'll behave. It's not like there are any humans here for him to misbehave with."

"That's true," says the cop, but the suspicion never leaves his voice.

The mall is only half lit, but the gates on several stores are lifted and bustling with shoppers. Other vampires wander from store to store as the radio plays overhead. Keith has never entered a mall for obvious reasons. He's only witnessed them on the television or in movies, but he's suddenly hyper-aware of how un-socialized he's become. Empty grocery stores with the occasional passing human can't compare to vampires comfortably existing in what could be considered a social watering hole.

Keith doesn't say much, trailing Shiro with his guard flared and eyes darting from movement to movement. If he wanted to, then he could have a conversation with any of the people passing him without experiencing that insidious hunger racing down his spine like fire ants. His neck muscles relax.

"We're going to a club," Shiro says as they drift into a high-end boutique featuring gratuitous amounts of leather and velvet. Keith drags his fingers along a leather tube top and frowns, unsure. "Vampires, especially older ones, are good at detecting when something's out of place, so we need to play the part well. We'll come back here and get you a regular wardrobe in a few days, but for now, priorities."

"Is it  _that_  kind of club?"

Shiro lifts a hand, thinks, and proceeds to suck air between his teeth. "If you want it to be."

Deciding he can't overthink the implications, Keith approaches a unisex rack and sifts through the hangers. Click after click passes as Shiro contemplates a blazer behind him. At the risk of becoming a cliche, Keith accepts velvet feels good beneath his fingertips, and he settles on the material.

Leather proves to be a harder sell, but he knows velvet on velvet is grounds for an arrest. Technically, it isn't his first time dressing for a club. He had a minor stint in the mid-70s where he used discos as hunting grounds, but like the grocery store, that was different. Back then, it wasn't his job to blend in for more than a handful of minutes. This is about impressing people, and Keith would rather not embarrass Shiro.

He pulls a black velvet hanger free from its bar and raises the garment for Shiro. "What about this?"

Shiro takes his time glancing up, but when he does, pauses with parted lips. Rather than immediately question Keith's choice, he checks its price tag.

"You're like a magpie."

Keith digests the comment. "I'm like a... bird..."

"You have expensive taste," Shiro explains and takes the shirt. He drapes it over his arm. When he returns to his own search, he belatedly laughs. "I wish you ate like a bird."

* * *

 

Keith sticks his head out the passenger window of Shiro's black SUV and brushes back his bangs, watching the highway glimmer beneath orange streetlights that pollute the sky and mute stars. He grasps onto the handle screwed into the car ceiling and leans farther out while breathing in summer's custard air. There's the candied scent of freshly cut grass, a fishy cloud rolling off a man-made lake, and occasional oily gusts accompanying semi-trucks that roar past and rattle Keith's ear canals.

 _Come Undone_  drifts from the current radio station and Keith slips inside the cab to raise the volume, mouthing along to Duran Duran as Shiro moodily smokes. He's been quiet throughout the duration of the drive, but Keith didn't expect much else. Before dressing for their outing, Keith fed on his throat until Shiro slammed him onto his back and pinned him to prevent overdrain. Keith had writhed, begged, but Shiro didn't give into his insatiable thirst. Instead, he told him to cram his ass into his new leather pants.

Which Keith did.

Leather pants and a red velvet racerback tank top, to be exact.

"What did Lance mean when he said I'd get  _prettier_?" Keith asks, taking the cigarette from between Shiro's fingers and bringing it to his lips. "You two are so vague it's annoying, not cool or mysterious or whatever you're trying to do when you act like that together."

Shiro snorts, smiling as smoke lazily drifts from his mouth. "That's what you took from our conversation?"

"Cut me some slack. I need a silver lining here if I'm going to cope."

"Cope with what exactly?"

Keith dramatically turns his face toward the window and deflates. "Regaining my moral fiber."

"Abstaining from homicide. The  _real_  tragedy." Shiro pats Keith's thigh and Keith turns his back toward him, lifting a hip so Shiro can pat his gleaming ass. Shiro grunts but gives the shiny leather a couple loud smacks. "I forgot how high maintenance baby vampires are."

"Just admit it, Shiro. Daddy vampires need to invest in Viagra."

"Daddy," Shiro mutters in distaste, brows knitting together.

"I'm only repeating Lance."

"Like that'll ever do you any favors." Shiro retrieves his cigarette and swipes Keith's nose. He lifts and drops his shoulders. "I'll be the first to admit the blood does move a little sludgy with age."

"So honest," Keith coos as he crawls over the armrest. Pressing his nose against Shiro's throat, Keith slips a hand inside Shiro's black blazer and runs a hand down his chest. "I could make your blood move faster."

"I don't think it counts if the blood is moving fast because you're vacuuming it out of my veins."

Knowing defeat when he sees it, Keith licks Shiro's throat and retracts his roaming palm. He drifts to his side of the car. Shiro smiles and subtly chews his lower-lip, laughing soft and shaking his head.

"You have to promise me you'll behave at Gnaw tonight, Keith. People will know I'm responsible for you the second we walk into the club, and I don't want to have to answer to Allura's pissed off goons."

"It's a vampire club," Keith says, arms folded across his chest and legs crossed. "Contained environment, right? I'm not going to get in trouble with big predators keeping an eye on me."

"Predators," Shiro echoes. "That's a good way of putting it. Older vampires love new feeders. They're excitable and easy to manipulate into illegal activity. Stay on alert."

Keith slides down his seat and fingers the black leather choker strapped to his throat. "I'm hungry."

"No, you're not. You're  _spoiled_."

As much as he wishes he knew what was going on, Keith has only gathered basic facts pertaining to what they're up to. The biggest player is Allura, an ancient vampire and longtime friend of Shiro's who owns Gnaw, a vampiric nightclub hidden away in an underground garage. She's supposed to help them navigate transferring Zarkon's influence over to Shiro, but Keith is certain Shiro said it's essentially impossible.

It's almost admirable how hellbent Shiro is on him not sauntering into Zarkon's cold embrace. Keith promised he isn't interested in working for a baby killer, but Shiro is unconvinced. Really, Keith wishes he cared about it as much as he cares about the blood slipping through Shiro's veins. He wants to suckle that wet down, drink himself stupid, but his compassion is returning, softening that harsh desire.

"I wonder who spoiled me," Keith says, hair whipping around his face.

Shiro goodnaturedly rolls his eyes. "I had to find a way to convince you to stay put."

"You're admitting to manipulation."

Shiro exhales and Keith laughs, tweaking Shiro's earlobe.

They park a block away from the garage. Shiro steps out of the car and applies a pair of black round frame sunglasses, checking his hair in the reflection of the car window. Keith appears beside him and tugs at Shiro's blazer, trying to draw him in for one more bite. Shiro kisses his forehead and pushes him away, shoving Keith in the direction of Gnaw. He plants a hand on his shoulder and guides him.

In the garage, sports cars are packed together like oily sardines. Each gleams from its fresh polish, and Keith can't help but pause to admire model after model with a newfound desire.

"I want one," Keith whispers more to himself than Shiro.

"Magpie," Shiro reiterates and tugs Keith away from a red Dodge Viper. "Can you even drive? You've never offered once."

Keith doesn't bother to hide his sneer. "I'm a baby vampire, not a human child. Before I knocked on your door, I had a stolen car waiting for me a few streets over. They towed it the next day."

For some reason, this makes Shiro carefully consider Keith. "Oh."

"Admit it," Keith says, striding toward a metal door alongside Shiro. "You want me to be helpless."

"Bound and determined to make this relationship weirder than it has to be."

"Ah – " Keith knowingly nods. "This  _is_  a relationship. More parasitic than mutualistic, I guess."

Much like the mall, Shiro knocks on the door and waits. Crossing his arms, he leans against the wall and looks Keith over, thoughtful. "For now, it's commensalism. It could be mutualistic, though."

It's Keith's turn to appraise Shiro. "Is that an offer, Shirogane?"

"Could be."

The door swings open before Keith can pry, and the soundproofing he later discovers is magic gives way to bass that climbs his legs like kudzu. Shiro nods at the redheaded bouncer with a fidgety curled mustache and blue leather jacket. He nods back before squinting at Keith, unsure but not commenting.

"He's fine, Coran!" Shiro yells over the music. "Got him on a leash. I promise."

Keith doesn't hear the redhead's response. His new surroundings are already overwhelming his isolated animal senses, and while maybe he could deal with disco in spurts, this environment is raw, bursting energy. The club is larger than the parking garage let on with an expansive light up dance floor, crowded catwalk swinging overhead, and multiple levels for more dancing and private tables. The tables are littered with glasses, but Keith never considered what might happen if a vampire drinks alcohol.

His eyes are drawn through the chaotic neon, and like a homing beacon, settle on a woman dancing on a an elevated stage. Flickering white light reflects off her black latex dress and her silver hair swings with the synth beat. She's sylphlike, dark skin radiating like an overturned treasure chest. Keith has never seen another being move with as much surefooted grace, especially not while wearing black platform stilettos.

Shiro lowers himself and speaks into Keith's ear. "That's Allura."

He says her name, and her movements slow. Allura lifts her eyes from across the room, and her gutting blue stare throws arctic wind Keith's way. The sensation that's stepping onto an elder vampire's territory uninvited is familiar, but Keith guesses he shouldn't be afraid with Shiro there. Her chill disperses, and Allura fearlessly steps off the stage, plummeting to the cement floor and landing with straight legs.

"She's intense," Keith murmurs.

Shiro nods, righting his back. "Unapologetically so."

Allura swings back her heavy hair and strides through the crowd toward Shiro. People part for her like Moses to the sea, and Shiro offers her a hand. Allura takes it with a smile, fangs shamelessly dropped. Keith's eyes linger on her blood red nails that might as well be talons. He almost misses the moment Allura scrapes a finger along the underside of Shiro's chin and laughs, sharp and gilded like a metal sun.

"Since when did Takashi Shirogane start collecting spawn?" Allura asks, side eyeing Keith. She turns and grabs Keith's jaw, inspecting him like a potential show dog. Keith knows when he's overpowered and resists the urge to hiss. "Very docile and pretty too, but he hasn't gone through the second spurt, has he? Shiro, that's so _dirty_  of you. He must be a good time if  _you're_ shirking morals."

"I'm feeding him," Shiro reassures her and himself. "Not fucking him."

Allura thumbs Keith's bottom lip. "That's a shame, really. I'll fuck him for you."

Shiro dares to be amused. "Aren't you preoccupied with Lance? He might have mentioned something about that to me the other day."

"Gossips. All of you." She tilts back Keith's head and examines his faded change marks. "As you know, Prince Lance is far too fickle for it to count."

Keith's eyes dart to Shiro in fear, and Shiro tenderly grabs Allura's wrist, freeing Keith. He hooks their arms and pets Allura's hand. "I don't know if you'd find him worth the trouble. He's one of Zarkon's."

"Zarkon?" Allura cuts a look back to Keith who's rubbing the lip she fondled. "No wonder he's so well behaved. Shiro, what kind of trouble are you in if you have him under those big batty wings of yours?"

"I'm not in trouble yet, but we all could be if you don't help us."

"This is an impromptu business meeting then," she says, suddenly serious. Allura nods toward the dance floor. "We'll go somewhere quiet. Follow me."

Still not sure why his good behavior is seen as such a threat, Keith wrinkles his brow in frustration and stares down Shiro, trying his best not to glower in front of Allura who has the authority to push him into a deep, shitty ditch. Shiro beckons Keith across the humid dance floor and toward the bottle service hall. Keith shoves past bodies, feels foreign hands graze his ass, but he's too distracted to acknowledge the groping. Beyond the hoard of grinding vampires is the climbing stench of blood. It radiates off the farthest wall, towering over him like an oncoming sandstorm. Keith salivates as the scent grows denser, sugarier.

"Shiro, honestly. You  _would_  show up during one of our busiest nights. The back rooms are stuffed and we've even had unscreened humans sneaking in. Six since the sun went down. It's been  _exhausting_."

Shiro winks at her. "It looked exhausting up on that stage."

They enter a guarded hallway wallpapered in a red Victorian pattern and lined by mismatched antique mirrors heads taller than Keith. A heavy door slides shut behind them, and as if in the garage again, the pounding music dissolves into an uncanny silence. The only other motion in the hall is a server balancing a tray full of blood filled champagne glasses. She pushes against a mirror, and it swings open like a door, revealing a private party splayed along black velvet chaises. A metallic perfume pours from the fleeting opening. It's tinged with a gamey familiarity that brushes Keith's senses. He shivers from want.

"Hungry again?" Shiro jokes.

"No," Keith lies, shivering again.

Powerful vampire energy accosts Keith every time they pass a door. He cautiously reaches for Shiro's sleeve, but the moment he grabs on he becomes self-conscious.

"You're doing a good job," Shiro says, pulling Keith to his side. His arm loops around Keith's waist, and they walk in time. "We'll get you a drink, and the anxiety will settle down."

"Where does that go?" Keith asks, nodding at the end of the hall.

It's a gold curtain. Keith peers at it, and the server from before strides through the drape's center with her tray tucked beneath an armpit. Her entry offers him a glimpse inside. There the wallpaper is gunmetal and purple, but the hallway doesn't continue forward. It spreads its arms into a T-shape, giving him a choice.

Allura glances at Shiro who's cocked his lips to the side, unapproving. She smiles. "Private bathrooms, the kitchen, and then places better left to the imagination."

"Imagination," Keith carefully repeats, eyes still lingering on the shimmering material.

Allura leads them through one of the farthest mirrors. The room has two black velvet couches like the one Keith snuck a peek of. He takes a seat beside Shiro, still gripping his sleeve as if his life depends on the anchoring fabric. He closes his eyes and a server enters, carting in three glasses of spiked blood. Allura's eyes settle on Keith, and Keith knows she's assessing how composed he can be behind closed doors. He can't put his finger on it, but something tells him if he makes a single misstep then she won't help Shiro.

Shiro hands him the glass of blood. "Here."

Keith stares down the thick, blackish liquid. He wants to chug it and take the glass from Shiro's hand, but he can't. There's no way he can be that weak. Keith's fingers shake, and he carefully brings the rim to his lips, fighting himself as he takes a single, small sip. The blood isn't as fresh as the kind that pours down his throat when he's stripped and scaling Shiro in the shower, but it's better than nothing. Keith dutifully nurses the drink and steadies his breathing again and again. It hurts, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"He's so well behaved," Allura says again, still in awe. "I can't believe it."

Shiro takes a sip and clears his throat. "His name is Keith. From what I've gathered, he's never been under the thumb of a sire or any elder vampire since being changed. His behavior is an adaptation."

"That's impossible," she counters, eyes hardening on Keith. "Surely an older vampire would have left him for the sun had they found him existing without a sire's leash. It's illegal."

"I was as surprised as you are, but he's still feral enough for me to believe it." Shiro's fingers push back the hair hanging over Keith's shoulder and he touches his sire scars, rubbing them. Keith tries not to shoot Shiro a hopeful look but fails. He curses at himself. "At this point, how it happened doesn't matter. I'm here because if Keith hunts down Zarkon during his second sput and Zarkon finds out he made what could very well be a super vampire, then we'll be in a lot of trouble. We don't know what'll happen to Keith when that second wave rolls around, but it's not something I'm interested in chancing."

Allura watches Shiro soothingly rub Keith's neck, inspecting as her mind churns. "And you're coming to me about this because – "

"I know you know more about vampiric alchemy than anyone else in North America. We need to find a way to transfer sire influences before Keith tries to join Zarkon against his better judgment."

She reclines back, uncrossing and re-crossing her slender legs. "Shiro, that's forbidden, and frankly, impossible."

"How can it be forbidden if it's impossible?" he asks, leaning forward to maintain the space between them. "There has to be a way to change hands here."

Allura peers at him, aware she was caught in her lie. "I should stop drinking on the job."

"Is there a restroom nearby?" Keith asks, suddenly needing air, not a pot to piss in.

Allura lifts a thinly tweezed eyebrow and directs her nose toward the door. "Turn left on your way out. It's through the curtain and to the right. Be smart, Keith. Don't talk to anyone."

"I should go with him," Shiro says.

Allura waves him off. "Let the man piss alone."

Keith sets aside his emptied glass and rises to his feet, allowing Shiro to give his hip a warning squeeze before drifting from the private room into the ornamental hallway. Voices filter through the surrounding doors, incomplete conversations whispery and stumbling over each other. Keith is aware the establishment is filled with both the living and undead, but somehow, the corridor is still  _hollow,_ lonesome even.

The drowning sensation from when Shiro first controlled him returns to his head like a chucked knife. Again, it reminds him of being submerged in a swimming pool where sound waves suffocate and screams roil, becoming bubbles hunting for the surface. Keith rubs his temples and exhales. For the first time since his change, he wishes he could remember how to be a human who felt more than he hungered.

Not to say humans don't hunger. Keith once starved with the same ferocity he does now and for something akin to blood. This other hunger also relates to how the heart pulses, pumps red the way fists open and close. That sensation, once so vibrant with a magic that cascaded like a curtain of falling meteors, now exists the way stars do behind hazy clouds. Keith knows it exists. He just can't see it.

He follows Allura's directions while keeping his eyes peeled for a neon EXIT sign. Even if it's ten minutes in a back alley, Keith needs to know he can be on his own for a second. Since moving into Shiro's stolen house, he's felt cramped and entirely dependent in a way he hasn't known since human childhood. Even when he steps outside to light a cigarette or watch the sky, Shiro is cautious, looming.

Keith can't blame him.

Whatever is special about him is something that could unearth chaos.

Keith is distracted from his head by muffled screams that seep through two double doors at the end of the silver hall. The doors are black and arched, also towering over Keith's modest stature. Silver bat heads stand in for knobs, which is a little too on the nose for Keith's taste, but considering Allura is wearing a latex dress and Keith willingly chose velvet, he supposes he doesn't have much room to judge here.

That aside, no one is guarding the doors.

_You've been doing well on self-control, and these people are trying to help you. Don't butcher your chances here. You never had a chance as human, but especially not as a vampire._

_Chance at what?_

Wanting his brain to quiet down, Keith seizes the handles by their throats and turns them, needing to know why the screams are so loud and terrified, and downright desperate to see why the stench of blood is rolling out like smoke from a toxic tire fire. The doors open onto darkness backed by purple neon runners, and for the slightest second, Keith can only see various writhing and arching shadows. Stepping inside, he knows he's surrounded by humans. Ones that have been hunted and wholly claimed.

"What kind of smell?" Keith whispers, rubbing his nose.

There's no anticipating the rotten stench clinging to the walls. The narrow space is drowning in slight movements, animated screams, and muffled, needy moans. More black velvet chairs are scattered across the floor and most are occupied by entangled limbs shiny with sweat. The doors slam shut behind him, and Keith thinks to leave, but the scent pins him.

Keith stares hard, eyes refocusing like whiplash and seeing all.

"Don't!" a man shouts, voice ripped raw from previous screaming. "Don't do this!"

The limbs are connected to vampires and the humans they're feeding on. Allura might try to keep the place clean, but the room reeks of bodies long gone. Keith clears his throat and his mouth waters. He sucks back drool and frantically looks from chair to chair, wanting to hunt and tear a throat open.

Going to the bathroom and pretending to piss would've been smarter, but if Shiro is going to treat him like an idiot, then he guesses he'll give himself license to act like one.

Keith strides deeper into the room, but no one bats an eye. Fangs sinking into flesh and panting that sounds more like fucking than feeding come at him from every angle. When passing the right light, he spots more latex and much more exposed skin. Silver chains connected to wrists and ankles clink and gleam, and for a moment, Keith is transfixed by a muscular man in a harness bent back over a chaise, naked. He's being fed on by not one but two vampires, and though he's muffling his cries, he's enjoying himself. Keith blinks, realizing one of the vampires is jerking him off in time with sharp, bloody sucks.

_Oh._

"Someone looks lost."

Keith wrenches back a shoulder and lifts his eyes, fangs dropped and pupils blown wide. Before him is a male vampire who is tall, incredibly tall, with hair as silver and as long as Allura's. His leather jacket and cigarette pants both carry a reflective sheen, but he's missing a shirt, exposing a chest that's deathly white and absorbing the purple mood lighting. Keith's nostrils burn from the power sloughing off him. It's instinct to cower, but deciding he'd rather die, Keith straightens his stance and glares with a lifted chin.

"Maybe," Keith admits, closing his mouth and letting his fangs hike inside his gums so he can speak without a lisp. "Can I help you?"

"It sounds like you might have it twisted. You clearly need my help, especially since you're not old enough to be here. You wouldn't want the club's mistress to ban you for life."

Keith's clenches his fists. "I'm in my fifties."

The vampire scoffs and perfectly enunciates with his fangs. "A regular toddler to the types who end up here. I can't remember the last time I saw one of you toiling about without a sire attached to his hip. Are you hungry? Is that what's wrong? Well, you've discovered quite the hedonistic buffet, haven't you?"

"Do you kill the humans?" Keith asks, eyes flitting from left to right.

He furrows his brow. "That would be barbaric and hardly sustainable."

"Right." Keith's fingertips tingle, but he figures it's from clenching too hard. Remembering Allura's advice, he decides it's time for him to leave. He turns away and steps. "I wouldn't know."

"Then you have no business drinking from a human." The vampire appears in front of Keith in a cloud of smoke and offers his hand, expression too gentle and even a tad sympathetic. "My name is Lotor. You look parched, pup, and more than a little uneasy. Let me help you curb your appetite until we can find out where that sire of yours ran off to, hmn? You can drink from my throat and more if you like."

 _More_ , Keith thinks, parting his lips in surprise. He rubs his lips together and looks down at Lotor's hand, wishing he had some semblance of self-preservation.  _I can't remember the last time I even had more._

"I won't abandon you," Lotor presses on. The tingle wraps its way up Keith's arms. "Not like your sire has. If you enjoy yourself, then maybe we can find you a regular bed in my cellar."

"A cellar," Keith says, voice like sandpaper and growing farther away. A lightness strikes his chest, and Keith's hunger beats like a drum. "That'd be nice."

Fresh blood also sounds nice, but so does letting another person touch him. He's never had the chance to experiment with sex as a vampire, but word on the street says it's only second to drinking from a fresh kill. Keith lifts a set of fingers and extends them, wondering if Lotor will taste half as good as Shiro.

"Not on my watch."

A hand slams onto Keith's shoulder and tugs him back, knocking his spine against a solid chest. Keith recognizes Shiro's scent and doesn't move, suddenly panting as the moment returns to him in full. It occurs to him he was being glamoured, and he doesn't withhold a threatening hiss in Lotor's direction.

Lotor lifts his eyes to Shiro. He's no longer as beautiful but he's just as imposing, expression distorted with a tight, wrinkled nose and one fang revealed in an aggravated sneer.

"Shiro, it's been a long time," Lotor says. "I see you dismounted your high horse and sired yourself a little companion. It took you long enough."

"That's right," Shiro lies, looping an arm around Keith's throat and petting his jawline with his knuckles. Keith attempts to play the part by not reacting outside another loyal hiss. "He was difficult to resist."

"So it seems," Lotor murmurs, catlike gaze remaining locked onto Keith. "So it seems indeed."

Allura slinks into Keith's peripheral vision. She's holding a martini glass and passively sipping what Keith guesses is a blood cosmo. Once she swallows, she enters the conversation.

"I'd appreciate it if you two kept your tempers muted. This room is for decadence and depravity, not a clash of two very _large_  egos between two very  _old_ men."

Lotor laughs, but it's sharp, acrid. "There is no clashing is there, Shiro? Had I known who he belonged to, then I would have graciously returned him."

"No clashing." Shiro strokes Keith's clavicles, and he boldly kisses his temple. "None at all."

Keith turns his nose into Shiro's cheek and side eyes Lotor, unnerved by Lotor's presence but also the fact Lotor carries himself in a way that makes Lance akin to something like a curdled Snack Pack.

"Anyway. I have other ways to amuse myself." Lotor shrugs and turns his shoulder. "It was nice meeting you – "

"Keith," Keith says with a fang lick.

He nods and tastes the name. "Yes. _Keith_."

Lotor steps farther into the room before disappearing into another cloud of thick, black smoke.

"Names give people power," Allura whispers above her glass. "He'll track you, Keith."

"Let him," Shiro murmurs and drops his arms from Keith. "I'll be there, too."

With Lotor gone, the three leave. Shiro all but drags Keith from the room, acting as if Keith could eviscerate a human at the drop of a hat. In the silver hall, Allura clicks her tongue and Shiro removes his hands from Keith. He crosses his arms and offers the younger a disapproving look, even sighing.

"Don't make that face," Keith says, drifting away as if he can escape the situation.

Shiro breathes deep from his chest and draws back his shoulders. "Keith, that space is off limits until you can feed on humans without mauling them. You just put several people's lives at risk."

"How was I supposed to know? No one told me."

Allura covers her mouth to conceal a smile. "Rebel, rebel."

"Without a cause," Shiro pointedly adds, and it's then Keith notices Shiro's fangs have dropped. Shiro strides down the hallway, legs long enough to cross lakes. "You have no idea who that was, do you?"

"Lotor," Keith says, watching himself rub his thumb and forefinger together.

"That doesn't mean you know who he is."

"Stop being mysterious and tell me then."

When they're surrounded by red walls, Shiro yanks open the mirror to the room they were in before. He doesn't continue until Keith is safely inside.

"Lotor was once Zarkon's primary successor. He's a witch-born vampire like Allura, meaning he's incredibly strong. These days, no one knows which side of the line he stands on or who he's working with. For all we know, he could be faking out the masses and still working undercover for Zarkon. One bite from you, and Lotor would've immediately been able to tell who your sire is."

Keith sits, and mirroring Shiro, crosses his arms over his chest. "He didn't _seem_ that strong at first."

"You were being glamoured," Allura reminds him. She lowers herself onto the couch beside Keith and leans into his line of sight. "Of course you didn't fear him. That's the point."

"Finish your blood and we'll leave," Shiro mutters, swiping his glass off the table.

Shiro's words are a thinly veiled order, which makes Keith's hairs stand on end. It's bad enough Shiro can glamour him without batting an eye, but being expected to ask 'how high' whenever Shiro decides he wants something done is almost worse. When Keith is being glamoured by Shiro, he isn't contemplating his independent will or sacrificing his dignity. Fortunately for Shiro, Keith isn't in the mood to fight him after his encounter with Lotor.

Running a hand along the back of his neck, Keith fights an eye roll and redirects his attention to Allura who is watching Shiro, lips pressed into a thin line. She waits for something, and when that something doesn't make itself known, she breaks the rapidly formed ice with a loud exhale. Allura hands her unfinished cosmopolitan to Keith who doesn't think twice about knocking it back.

"When you visit Pidge, make sure you don't mince words," Allura says, tone so cutting it makes Shiro shift. "Let her know I sent you. Otherwise, her pack has the right to eat you for dinner."

"Pidge," Keith echoes, expecting an explanation.

"A werewolf," Shiro says, eyes still lingering on Allura. Eventually, they flick toward him. "Sometimes she's considered a good friend, but it depends on the moon."

The last thing Keith wants to do is let Shiro know the idea of werewolves is still over his head. Between that and fae, he's had his self-esteem jostled enough for one decade. He pretends visiting a pack is a casual concept and nods. Shiro notices Keith's glass is empty and finally excuses them.

"Let me know if you dig something up." Shiro stands. He tugs at his lapels and gestures at Keith with two fingers. "I'm sure we'll be around sooner than later."

"Keep an eye on him," Allura warns. Once again, Keith no longer exists to them. He glances to the side and tries not to find kinship with sitcom teenagers. He's too old for this. "Lotor knows his name."

As much as Keith wants to melt into the club's main crowd and become one with the moving masses sweating on the dance floor, Shiro strides through the dancers as if he doesn't see them. Vampires of all ages move aside without being told, not needing a single 'pardon.' Keith can't imagine holding that much power and influence, but he would thrive on knowing himself half as well as Shiro seems to.

They escape from the garage, and the fresh night air empties Keith's head like a toppled bucket of paint. Both the heady scent of blood and coiled vampire influences are gone, and he groans, relieved.

"Don't make me go back to the house," Keith says before Shiro can step toward the car. "I'd rather – "

" – get a suntan," Shiro finishes for him, showing off dazzling teeth. Keith grumbles, and Shiro seizes his shoulder. He directs him away from the parked vehicle. "We can wander. I don't want to go back either."

Keith casts him a glance. "Thanks for being a merciful liege."

Shiro contorts his face at the word _liege_  and lets his hand drop. "Keith, my  _vassal_ , you might want to consider a career change. You don't even vacuum up your cereal crumbs, let alone farm the land."

Rather than deny his careless tendencies, Keith quickens his pace, shoving both hands into the back pockets of his leather pants. Shiro manages a breathy snort and jogs after him until their steps fall in time.

"Where are we going?" Shiro asks, eyes forward. "You're walking like you have something in mind."

"Don't kid yourself." Keith doesn't slow his pace. They turn a corner and the street opens onto an assortment of lively bars and bumbling drunk humans. "I'm good at pretending I know what I want."

"We're free range then."

Keith isn't sure what neighborhood they're in, but he spots two men holding hands outside a bar. After noting the rainbow flag proudly hanging on a diner's door, and utilizing his sharp deductive skills, Keith realizes they're in a gay neighborhood. These inclusive communities are still new to him. Fifty years ago, it was something that seemed too good to be true, and during several human rights movements, Keith was too busy tearing open throats to consider how the world was rapidly changing around him.

The idea makes him ache with painful memories from being human. There was a time when he accepted he would never have someone he could fully love. That aspect of his humanity had burned him alive day in and day out, but if he had been born now, with these neighborhoods and a community ready to rip out teeth for their right to love and be, then maybe his teenage years would've been spent with less focus on proving to himself he could be normal and working on pursuing a way out and into this kind of haven.

"This is a good street," Shiro tells him. He nods toward a bar currently featuring their leather night. "You blend in well with that shirt."

Keith spins on a heel, thankful for the distracting dig and feeling the cocktail Allura gave him. "You blend in well with that face."

"Is that supposed to  _mean_  something?"

"It means exactly what you think it does," Keith says and pivots back around.

Shiro chews his cheek, trying not to laugh. "Are you sure Lotor didn't make you snort anything?"

Passing a storefront promising its customers size 13 stilettos, Keith pays more attention to the warbling neon rainbows and surrounding heartbeats than the entertainment closing in on him. Shiro is there somewhere, playing watchman, and it makes Keith feel secure in himself for the first time since he last saw a sunrise.  _Kiss Them For Me_  blares from a club with swung open windows, and Keith's instincts tremble, slipping through the cracks. The heartbeats fad and he smells rotting car oil and leaves.

Shiro stops outside a store and reads a sign. It takes Keith a moment to realize it's a sex shop with barred off windows.

"Have you ever done poppers?" he asks. "They work on vampires."

Keith returns to Earth, shaking his head and coming to a full stop. "What are poppers?"

"Nevermind," Shiro quickly answers. Tearing his gaze away from the sign, he blinks like a hound that heard a deer sprint past. "Is that a saxophone?"

Technically, it's a live band. Keith spots the watering hole featuring said band across the street. It's a residential home turned into a cafe that doubles as an after-hours nightclub. Keith nods in its direction.

"We can check it out."

Shiro takes Keith's hand and steers him across the street, and unexpectedly, into the moving crowd. Couples are dancing to the crooning sax, laughing against the limited space between their mouths. Because Keith drank blood and booze, his ears flush like begonias. He nervously rubs his lips together when he realizes Shiro wants to dance, eyes shooting anywhere but at Shiro's face. Try as he might, Keith can't help but jolt when Shiro touches his hip and draws him close. Comfortable contact made worms writhe beneath his skin long before he was changed into 'Nosferatu But Hotter.'

"I don't dance like this," he admits when Shiro guides his arm around his neck. Keith brushes his fingers over the shaved hair blanketing Shiro's nape. "We should've danced at Gnaw instead."

"What a predicament," Shiro says. "I don't dance like that."

A corner of Keith's mouth hooks high. He tilts his head back and inspects, brow hiking. "Your way or the highway."

Shiro chuckles. It's almost sheepish.  _Almost_. "Wouldn't go that far. I'm more than capable of compromising when I have to."

"But you don't have to right now."

"You're smiling," Shiro observes and smoothly shifts them forward, offering Keith a chance to pick up on the song's rhythm. Keith watches their feet as they shuffle. "You also haven't stepped on my toes yet."

"Probably because we've moved two inches."

"It's easier when you stop trying," he offers, accelerating the pace and loosening his shoulder muscles. Keith decides to watch Shiro instead of his boots, eyes shining with uncertainty because they're moving too fast for his delicate ego. If he messes up again, then Shiro will have it solidified in his mind he's incapable of doing  _anything_  right. "You've been thinking a lot lately. For fifty-eight, anyway."

"Back before I was changed, I thought all the time." Keith doesn't want Shiro to know something as inherently human as dancing makes his armpits wet, so he keeps talking, fast. "My dad would get after me for daydreaming all the time, but I wasn't dreaming. I was thinking about how things  _are_."

Shiro smiles. "There's a big difference."

"Looks the same on the outside, though."

"The first mistake we make is taking anything at face value," Shiro says and thumbs Keith's hipbone. "Bit of a disservice to existing. Half the fun is knowing nothing is simple."

Keith ponders, no longer counting his footfalls. "You've been alive too long not to have some things figured out."

"Wrong," Shiro says and extends an arm. The movement pushes Keith away from his chest, but Shiro smoothly reels Keith back in, bringing them front to front. Keith fights an embarrassed laugh, and Shiro talks through it for the younger vampire's sake. "If we're being honest here, then I know less every single day, and I think I'm better for it. One answer makes you ask a hundred more questions. Life doesn't begin until you figure out how to accept you'll never know everything, even if you're immortal."

"What's it like?" Keith asks, returning his hand to Shiro's neck.

Shiro offers a questioning hum.

"To be in love with being alive." He pauses on the implications of that sentence. "Alive or whatever being conscious means when you're a vampire."

It's Shiro's turn to be embarrassed. He shakes his head with a shrug, white bangs swaying. "If you're one of us, then it's hard-won. Let's just say I wouldn't go back to being any other way."

The untitled saxophone solo transitions into  _Dancing in the Moonlight_. Several middle age couples cheer as if told their pensions were doubled, engaging Keith's secondhand embarrassment. Shiro glances at the clapping women beside them, looks back at Keith's red nose, and suddenly mouths the words with on-beat gesticulation. Though it takes several seconds of Shiro's relentless singing, Keith sacrifices his chafed pride to the Gods of Fun and laughs, shaking his head. Keith sings back at Shiro, retrieving Shiro's hands to continue dancing, and he has to wonder just how strong Allura's drink was.

Shiro grabs Keith by the back of his head and presses their foreheads together, swaying to the rhythm with him. "You shouldn't be able to do this. Dance or have fun that isn't a murdering spree, I mean."

"Lucky you then," Keith answers, fingers curled tight into the back of Shiro's blazer.

Shiro's breath is hot against his mouth. "Lucky me."

Keith knows the lyrics to the smooth jazz rendition of ABBA's  _Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)_ , but he refuses to disclose his disco past. Even after Shiro bargains by admitting he rollerbladed to Diana Ross in glittering purple shorts, Keith makes a zipping lip motion and dances on instead.

"How many times have you changed your persona?" Keith asks. "You've lived so many lives."

"Not once," Shiro promises, lifting the Scout's Honor sign. "It's the world that's changed, and I just change with it."

Only when the band packs up for the night do they race the sun home.

Riding shotgun, Keith shucks his boots and kicks his feet onto the dash. Normally, Shiro would push them off, but he pretends not to notice and tells Keith about the places he's lived during the past century. He's never lived in San Francisco, but he's spent summers along Nafpaktos, soaking in moonlight bright enough it seemed to appropriate the sun. There was a stint in Plitvice Lakes National Park where he stalked lunar rainbows and camped in caves during the day, and then there were the five years in Aomori City. There he split apples with his bare hands and photographed snowflakes. Currently, Shiro wants to visit the picturesque St. John's, and he plans on booking a flight to see the aurora australis for the third time.

"If you could go anywhere, then where would you go?" Shiro asks.

The question catches Keith off guard, but he plays along, fingers walking the open window like a tightrope. He gives himself an entire minute to think.

"I'd say the moon, but the moon reflects sunlight, so maybe it wouldn't be that comfortable."

"Leave it to you to be abstract." Shiro tugs a strand of Keith's hair. "Try again for me."

_For me._

Keith's fingers stop dancing and his mind flits back to the atlas with its arid cover.

"Anywhere that's quiet and warm," he says, smiling to himself. "Somewhere like the desert. They're cold at night, but I'd like to think there's a split-second where the sand still feels like the sun."

The men exchange gentle looks, but it's Shiro who speaks first. "Sun envy. You know, it never really does go away."

Keith's eyes dart away. "A small price to pay for immortality."

"Some might say that, but you don't look like you believe it."

"It has to get easier," Keith murmurs, not hearing his own hopefulness. "It's like everything else. We adjust to the shit that happens, and while we always exist with it, the ache curbs."

"Wise words," Shiro says, meaning it. "Wise words even for fifty-eight."

Neither man bothers to turn on the lights when they step inside the house. Shiro locks the door behind them, and Keith is already descending the basement stairs. Out of habit, they shower together, but Keith doesn't pursue Shiro's throat, running on a different kind of satiated adrenaline. Shiro leaves the spray first, and Keith lets himself soak beneath it with his eyes burning into the pastel blue tiles.

"Good to have you back," Shiro says when Keith reappears in the bedroom. Shiro is already lounged back on the bed, shirtless. "Thought you drowned."

"The coast guard found me no thanks to you." Keith tosses his damp towel onto Shiro's naked chest. "It's good to be back."

Keith climbs onto the bed, letting his knee dip the mattress. Shiro was reading a book with a cracked and frayed spine. The title is in Latin, so Keith has no context for the content. He crawls toward Shiro's side and drops onto his back, letting his eyes flit across the ceiling as if there's something to see. Shiro is still for several seconds before he snaps the book shut and checks his wristwatch. Mumbling something about it being mid-morning, he turns off the lamp and submerges them both in the basement's dark.

"Lotor told me I was abandoned," Keith says, always finding it easier to feel when no one's looking.

Shiro slowly lifts and drops his chest. His performative breathing is soothing, and Keith hopes he never stops doing it. "You were."

Keith clears his throat and rests a palm against the side of his face and inhales, tightening something inside himself that rattles like a loose screw. He knits his eyebrows together and opens his mouth, hesitating on thoughts that are too clear after centuries of living in a billowing fog.

"That sucks," he whispers to himself. He massages his temples. "That _really_  sucks. It kinda makes me wonder what I did wrong. There had to be something wrong with me. It's not normal for sires to do that."

"Zarkon isn't exactly what I'd call normal. He does this a lot," Shiro says and more quiet looms over them. "Are you hurting?"

Keith clears his throat. "My head is fine. The drinks have already metabolized."

"We both know I'm not talking about your head."

Another pause passes. It's not the swollen, gibbous kind hinged on a feeling. It's just awkward. Keith contemplates letting the curse push him into sleep, but he makes himself speak.

"My chest is  _boiling_."

"I figured," Shiro answers.

Myths about what it's like to roast beneath the sun are tossed back and forth between vampires. From what he's gathered, their souls go nowhere. Ash to ash, dust to dust and eternal darkness. Nothing more. Nothing less. Currently, though, Keith thinks he  _is_  more than that. His soul was resuscitated and it's curling in like a burnt strip of paper, begging to be recycled, rebuilt into something useful. He's been alive on instinct yet simultaneously dead, but not anymore. Keith isn't sure what's better or worse.

It couldn't have been the dancing. If that were the case, then every theater kid on planet Earth would be validated, and Keith can't have that. Not now. Song and dance cannot equate to life. That's too much.

Shiro rolls onto his side and grabs Keith's farthest shoulder. He tugs him close, shutting his eyes.

"Better this happen now than when you hit the second spurt," Shiro says, drowsiness swaddling his words. "You're going to feel and feel until it's like being born while conscious. A jumpstart might buffer it."

That's not reassuring, but Keith attempts to trust Shiro, knowing he doesn't have another option. He presses his forehead against Shiro's chest and grits his teeth, but he's learned that if he does that too long before he falls asleep the curse will freeze him and he'll wake up with a locked jaw. Keith forces his body to unclench, and Shiro reaches around his waist, letting his arm loosely hang there.

The intimate position doesn't go unnoticed. He wants to ask Shiro if it's normal for people to take on younger vampires the way Shiro has, but by the time he opens his mouth again, Shiro is fast asleep.

* * *

 

They're on the couch, lying on plastic, when Keith feeds again. Straddling Shiro's hips while the man lies vertical, Shiro is reading  _The Velvet Promise_. As funny as it was for a split-second, Keith can't help his aggravation. Shiro is more captivated by mid-80s housewife porn than his breathless grunts and grinding.

"You're irritated," Shiro points out, eyes flicking across a page. "Since when do you get irritated before a feeding? You're usually looking at me like I hung the moon."

"You're imagining things," Keith murmurs and leans forward.

Shiro refuses to let the topic die. "I'm not."

"Dinner plates don't usually talk back, Shiro."

"You rude little –  _fuck_!"

Without a polite warning, Keith's fangs crunch through the hollow of Shiro's throat. Sighing in relief, he slides his hands down Shiro's thick biceps, fingernails scraping dense flesh as he jerks himself closer to the man's chest. Warm wet floods his tongue, and the blood is hotter than it's ever been before. Shiro must have hunted while he slept, and for a split second, Keith fantasizes about the kill, the split second fight for life before his predatory strength cuts through the will to live. Keith curls his nails into Shiro's skin even deeper, heart kickstarting and walloping against his rib cage.

The fantasy sours for no definite reason, falling like a startled souffle, but Keith ignores it and focuses on the pain radiating from his chest as his organs revive one after another.

It hurts. It always does when he sleeps and his heart hardens from a lack of use, but it's that good kind of hurt. The kind that makes him want to hurt in other ways, and with Shiro's help.

Keith swallows, panting in between hard sucks. Taking the escalation as a sign to engage, Shiro sets the book on the arm above his head. Almost lovingly, he fists Keith's hair and strokes a thumb along the knife-edge of his cheekbone, holding him in place like a lover. When Keith's lips pop, sticky from the coagulation, Shiro mashes his lips together and stifles a chuckle. It vibrates behind his sternum, and when the sound reaches his teeth, Keith pulls off Shiro's neck with a grunt, inspecting the older man's lopsided smile. Keith licks his lips as clean as he can manage and sucks his pink teeth for remnants, shameless.

Shiro hums, still cradling Keith's face. "Did you stop to give me an eat shit look or are you full?"

"First one," Keith says and turns his head to bite at Shiro's fingers.

"Now that's what I call progress. Attitude over appetite."

Keith glances down at the space between them, his naked thighs framing Shiro's denim-clad ones. He swallows metallic spit and looks up, eyeing the leaking holes on Shiro's throat. The insatiability is still looming, but its neon flare has dimmed. Keith's eyes grow half-lidded and he lowers his mouth to Shiro's throat again. He doesn't create a vacuum this time but licks instead, dragging the flat of his tongue over the puncture wounds and rubbing his nose along the razor edge jawline. He nips it and Shiro tenses, shifting his hips and tersely exhaling while letting his head fall farther back against the stained cushion.

"Does it feel good?" Keith asks in between laps, hungry for something else.

Shiro laughs, exasperated. "Are you sure you're not full yet?"

"Not the kind of full I wanna be."

"Not happening," Shiro murmurs, but he doesn't push Keith off. "We have somewhere to be anyway. Pidge isn't nocturnal like us, and it's a hell of a walk to the pack's campsite."

Keith slides his weight back with a grunt, making a point to grind against Shiro whose body is less convincing than his tone. He reaches for the wet rag on the table and roughly scrubs his mouth. While he might be broiled alive by his frustration, he'd rather suffer until he ripped his teeth out than ever beg Shiro to satiate him. He wants to be in control somehow. He's  _going_  to be in control even if it kills him.

"Let's go then," Keith says, swinging a leg off Shiro like he's dismounting a horse. "I wanna see a werewolf in person."

The motion makes Shiro snort. He watches Keith wash his shirtless chest clean of blood, and though he won't acknowledge it, Keith knows Shiro is ruminating. A pressure in the room builds, and eventually, Keith has to open the valve. He throws Shiro a glance, wiping his pink chin with the back of a hand.

"Can I help you?" Keith asks, lips curling into an aware smile.

Shiro continues to think with eyes that scrape Keith's whole person. "It's an ethical thing, you know? This doesn't have anything to do with you as a person. It's the curse's age that's the problem."

Keith nods, letting boredom dim his eyes.

"We've gone over this before, so I'll save you the energy and recite the lesson." Keith returns to washing his chest, letting the rosé water drip into his thick happy trail. "You're the good vampire, and I'm the helpless, instinct-driven one who can't possibly know what he wants. By giving into my uncontrollable urges, you're taking advantage of my readiness. Very misguided, but I still appreciate the sentiment. Another gold star for Takashi Shirogane's spangled board of moral accomplishments. Good boy."

"Scathing," Shiro says and slides an arm beneath his head. As his throat heals right before Keith's eyes, he smiles, smarmy. "But I was going to say I think about fucking you, not give you another lecture."

Keith stops washing and lets the cloth fall into the bowl of warm water with a soft splash. No longer as confident as he thought he was, Keith keeps his eyes cast to the side. His pulse flickers, and Shiro must have heard it because his self-satisfied grin only grows, blossoming like some rare, jackass flower.

"That made it worse," Keith confesses, speaking with the inflection of a question. His lower abdomen knots, abdominal muscles daring to grow taut, and Keith's tongue secretes. "Do vampires…"

Patient as a saint, Shiro waits. "Do we what?"

"Vampires… do they…" Unable to say it out loud, Keith makes a jerking off hand gesture, letting his fingers open wide to represent coming. "You know.  _That_."

Shiro has the gall to whistle. Rubbing his chin, he nervously laughs and looks away. "They do. Takes a while to regain interest, but the standard timeline doesn't apply to you that well."

Trying to maintain some kind of decency, Keith carefully considers his next words. "When did you…"

Shiro coughs, effectively interrupting the moment.

"Look at the _time_ ," he says, sitting up like a springboard is attached to his spine. He rises to his feet and takes the rag from Keith's hands, leaning in and patting the side of Keith's hazy expression. "We're late."

"You're not running from this." Keith tries to fan the fire from his skull, but it only causes the flames to burn brighter. "Not after admitting you think about fucking me."

"Running from what?" he asks, mopping blood off his throat as he walks toward the kitchen. The faucet blasts and he shouts toward the living room. "I have no idea what you're talking about!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onto badass genius werewolves, scary vampires who aren't cool and run clubs, and possibly some gratuitous NSFW.


End file.
